Fourteen Months Later
by unfortunatelyme
Summary: A continuation of Fourteen Months. Should you feel confused by some concepts in this piece, feel free to use the aforementioned as reference. Brittana.
1. These Days

**All right, guys. This idea has been eating at me ever since I completed the last installment. And since I'm experiencing some down time with my other piece, I wanted to get this out before it left me.**

**Please keep in mind that I am currently working on another piece, and will devote all energy into this once the other is completed. Until then, check out the first installment, Fourteen Months, if you'd like to understand some of the concepts of this one.**

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_**Disclaimer: I do not own Glee or any of its characters.**_

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_Duh. Duh, duh, duh. Duh, duh, duh, duh, duh._

I grind against the lap of an older man, probably forty or so. His hands are as rough and calloused as the bass of this wretched song. They aren't the familiar smell of coconut and lavender that I've become accustomed to. Smells, however, do not deter any of The Club's patrons from copping a feel whenever they can. My backside. My chest. Hell, some are even brave enough to venture further down south.

"Brave" meaning oblivious. Not to the rules, which explicitly prohibit such behavior. But more so to the corner booth, where a silhouette occasional cranes its neck. Where a cloud of smoke consistently envelopes the area. Where servers continuously visit, delivering drink-clad trays. Two, sometimes three at a time. These touchy men with their touchy hands are oblivious to Santana, who's made it her job to monitor me while I work at mine.

I count to six in my head. That's roughly the amount of time each man has between my verbal warning and Santana's more physical presence. _Six, seven, eight._ Surely enough, she stumbles up, scowl plastered across her sunken face. "Hands, asshole," she snips.

The man, too fueled by a multitude of dark drinks, smirks at my best friend. My counterpart. My protector. The love of my life. His hands pop up in a surrendering fashion. I allow a breath. Just one, though. Hoping that we'll avoid a scene tonight. Understanding that we probably won't. "_Hey_," he grunts, smirk still as wide as ever. "She approached _me_."

I close my eyes just as a harsh _clap_ rings throughout the area. Underneath me, the man falls out cold. To my right, Santana nurses her left hand. Cupped-palm-to-temple action. She usually doesn't get them on the first try, but nothing surprises me these days. Like when Bruce, The Club's head bouncer, approaches us, shaking his head. Or when Santana shrugs disbelievingly at him. "_He had it coming_," her grimace argues. I put a hand up, grab my best friend's arm, and promptly march out of the building.

"That's the third time this week," I sigh, cranking the car. It sputters once, twice, before turning over. _God, we need something new. _Thankfully, Santana hasn't tried wrestling the keys from me, or else we'd be even later in getting home. Which is a stretch, considering that "late" usually means staying past one's allotted shift. Anything past one in the morning. In the world of Santana and Brittany, though, being asked to leave my place of employment any time after eleven o'clock is pushing it.

She burps. "His hands were all over you. What else was I supposed to do?"

I don't bother mentioning the peaceful means that my boss has suggested time and time again. "_Report the incident. Allow Bruce to do his job._" He's been relatively cooperative, trying to help Santana and me out. Showering me with second chances. Extra hours. A larger tip-share than the other dancers. But try explaining that to the girl who struggles in sitting up right now. Who teeters like tumbleweed in the breeze. Try convincing her that handsy men mean more food on our table. An electricity bill that is actually paid on time. Clothes that fit for Eddie, who's growing daily, it seems.

Just try.

We pull into Lima Heights Adjacent just before midnight. Eddie should be fast asleep, but I know that he is not. He will undoubtedly be up and about with Carey, waiting on our safe return. He won't ask about the nature of Santana. Not anymore, at least. Not when an angry, liquor-fueled Santana is as common as the one he first came to know. The one that loved him dearly. The one that would go to the ends of this very earth to see that he experienced no pain.

These days, she's the number one source of it.

She can climb the stairs on her own tonight, which is a blessing, considering how tired these past couple of nights have left me. The end of the month is coming, though, which means that rent will be due. And when the diner Santana works at takes a major plummet in sales, we all suffer. I'm just doing what I can to pick up the slack.

Speaking of slack, Santana's legs give out about halfway to the door. I nestle my back into her front, take hold of both arms, and lift. "I'm good," she groans once we're inside. "I'm good."

"I'll say," Eddie chimes from the dining room table, closing his notebook. It's a practice Santana instilled in him early on, doing homework immediately after school. Granted, as she's fallen apart, so have her rules for conduct. We're lucky if the boy completes half of his assignments. At least, that's what the teachers have explained to us in countless meetings.

But the Latina marches over as she always does if she remembers, flips the notebook open, and scans his work. Sometimes, in moments like these, the real her will shine through the cracks, breaking my heart even more. "Hey, B," she begins, taking a moment to burp, "what's twelve times twelve?"

"One hundred and forty-four," the boy groans, snatching his paper away. "Now go crack yourself a Four Loko, Count Boozy von Drunk-a-Ton. Put your feet up. Relax a little."

The Latina's hand reaches out to catch the back of his head but misses. Instead, she stumbles forward, knocking into the baseball bat we once kept around as a protective presence. Nowadays, Santana and a bottle of rum are enough to ensure that no unwanted visitors swing by the Lopez-Pierce residence. Even Carey, who's been quietly standing in the kitchen until now, seems uncomfortable. I flash her a look of "I'm sorry" as she leaves the apartment.

I do the same to Eddie, who hesitantly leads Santana by the hand towards our couch. He then meets me in the kitchen, where I try tidying up before bed. Words aren't necessary at this point. They haven't been for quite some time. An understanding nod of aged faces is the most either of us needs. Considering that tonight has been an unpleasant one for Santana, both Eddie and I are well aware of what's to come. More importantly, I see to it that the boy is safely tucked away in his room before it does.

The door clicks locked before I dare venturing to the sofa. Santana, who dumbly stares at a static-ridden television (we haven't had the most basic cable for months), snaps to attention when I begin massaging her shoulders. She's still hunkered over, but more aware. And as I climb over the back of the couch, nestling in behind her and peppering light kisses across the girl's neck, she appears almost human. At least, for the split-second when her hand gently rubs across mine.

What comes next is routine. On her good, less agitated nights, Santana's far gentler in our endeavors. On nights like this, where she takes it upon herself to singlehandedly combat the slimy creatures of Lima, my best friend isn't really my best friend. She's someone else entirely. A forceful, troubled soul. Someone whose hand typically reaches back, sliding across and coaxing me in front. Someone whose hands could paint the most beautiful portraits if she wasn't so busy destroying everything in her path.

"_Anger management_," the therapist said.

"_Angry sex_," Santana heard.

I'm eased onto my back, brown eyes cutting into mine. "You're the most beautiful girl I've ever seen," she brokenly says. I trust her, even through clouded judgment. The sincerity of her tone, her expression, her features, is enough to convince an Eskimo that he should buy _this _ice for one reason or another. "I just hate it when those assho—"

I kiss her fervently to suppress the building rant. It's far too late. Eddie needs his sleep. No sense in yelling. No sense in prolonging the inevitable.

Few words are exchanged after this. Instead, gentle pecks turn into hot, open-mouthed kisses. Shirts are shed and tossed across the room. We topple from the couch to carpeted floor. Where she was unstable before, Santana hovers over me with great ease. She then wastes no time in looping two fingers through my jeans, tugging them down hurriedly. A thigh presses into my center. A mouth meets the nape of my neck, nibbling just a little too hard.

I suppress a wince, not wanting Santana to cry. She undoubtedly would, just as she always does when she believes me to be in slightest bit of pain.

If this were high school, I might get into the act a little bit more. But this isn't high school. This isn't McKinley and this isn't just some hook up at a party. This is what's become of Brittany and Santana. This is a scene that plays out almost nightly.

"How about you let me top tonight?" I ask, trying to smile as I flutter a hand across the side of her neck. "Allow you to enjoy yourself for a change. How does that sound?"

My answer comes in the form of a dismissive grunt. Santana, with hot breath that reeks of alcohol, doesn't bother with foreplay. Instead, she merely ignores a swollen left hand, plunging two fingers into me. Seconds later, she's writhing against my body. I usually try to stifle the pleasure, the swell of heat; this sends coursing through my veins. She should know that I'm tired. She should understand the separation of physical and emotional. She doesn't.

My back doesn't help the argument, either, as it arches into her, trying like hell to deepen her hold.

We continue like this for the better part of a half hour. Each fighting for dominance. My eventual submission. Hands clawing at whatever flesh they meet. We both possess red marks that heal and are torn anew each night. Scratches the lengths of our backs. I accidentally draw blood when Santana pushes me closer to the edge. She ignores her own obvious pain, continuing deeper and harder with each thrust. And with a final brush against my clit coupled with the last plunge of her fingers, I'm forced over the edge.

Blood litters the undersides of my finger nails as a white light fills my vision. If Santana notices either, she doesn't seem to care.

As I've said before, this is the same scene that unfolds each night. She never wants like treatment. Most of the time, she flips me onto my stomach, not even wanting the slightest bit of eye contact. Most of the time, we might make it to the bedroom. Most of the time, Eddie doesn't have to witness the before. But like everything else that might've once fallen under the category of "most of the time", our relationship is constantly changing. Evolving. And most of the time, it's not always for the best.

One thing remains consistent, though, and it's how she'll pull the quilt from the back of the couch over our bodies. Cradling my head on her chest, she doesn't bother with a pillow. Not if I'm already comfortable. We simply lie on the floor, naked bodies formed against each other, shivering against the early October night chill.

They say, "All you need is love." Yeah, right. Love and a heating unit that actually works.

Santana usually drifts right off to sleep. Sometimes she might cry for a moment or so, but it's mostly just guttural snores that keep me awake. I use the moments to think. It's the only time that I'm free of an otherwise constant state of worry. As my head bobs up and down with her struggled, smoke-tainted breaths, I reflect on Brittany and Santana. The people we used to be. _Where _we used to be. How in the hell we ever ended up this way.

Where, exactly, did we begin? Was it in the second grade, underneath that playground slide? Or the night she took a major fall for me? Could it have been my drunken night of wandering around, searching for my best friend, only to be found passed out nearest a dumpster? What about that night on her parents' roof, when she swore with the most sincerity and belief that we were going to be okay?

It's been a wild ride. A train wreck, more appropriately. Constantly moving. But moving doesn't necessarily mean in a positive direction. What I would give for just a minute of stillness with Santana. Quiet. Peace. Serenity. As my science professor might say, we're too busy serving as the North ends of a magnet. Desperately trying to connect. Constantly forcing ourselves together, only for the laws of attraction to say otherwise.

But I try. God, do I try. If I could just pinpoint where everything started, then I should be able dissect our issues. Root of the problem, right? It's somewhere in the past, obviously. Somewhere on that roller coaster of a fourteen month span, where I spent every waking moment trying to win my best friend back. Lies, heartache, and betrayal. Sex, hospitals, and tears. Even the drinking. We'd sworn it off altogether. Particularly when it so threatened to tear us apart for good.

These nights on the floor, where I do just about all of my thinking, they beg the most obvious, heartbreaking question of all. How am I supposed to defeat the past when it's become such a large part of our present?

Not alone, surely. _Surely._

Santana snores loudly this time. I inspect her face. On the verge of wrinkles. Black bags underneath her eyes. Boney. Sunken into itself. Most of all, I can see the turmoil. The internal war. You don't have to stare into those once mesmerizing eyes to see that she's not the same. There's pain. There's conflict. There's a struggle between who she is and who she should be.

And I guess that I'm to blame for that.

_Is it possible, though, to miss the girl lying next to me more than anything in this world?_

We won't go into too much detail. Not now. There are far too many angles of approach. Soon enough, though, I'll try giving you a specific answer. Give a name to our suffering. Our strife. One day, I'll deeply dissect the once very-in-love girls known as Brittany and Santana. One day, I'll give you a definitive answer.

But since you're asking—not like you've got a gun to my temple or anything—I'll just say that it began somewhere in the vicinity of fourteen months ago. How fitting, right? But it was a little over a year since our night on her parents' roof. After Santana convinced me that everything would be okay. That _we'd _be okay.

We were lying in bed. We'd just made love, as we frequently did back then. Eddie accidentally popped in the doorway shortly after we'd settled underneath the covers, and Santana threw a pillow, smacking him square across the forehead. We all got a big kick out of that.

Then he muttered something in Spanish (Santana had been teaching him). I recognized it as maybe a cuss word, but they never would tell me. They enjoyed those kinds of secrets. Inside jokes or whatever.

We were all happy then. Santana made a point of telling me when she took hold of my hand, caressing the crook of each finger. We just laid there, soaking in the beautiful silence. Listening to the other breathe. Having our breaths fall in sync. Then her head cocked over in the slightest. I even remember the way that an inlet of moonlight reflected off of her eyes as they met mine.

I was never more in love than in that moment.

It was also more than likely right here that our issues arose. Where everything came crumbling down. Because she muttered four simple words that carried so much. The weight of our entire relationship. Eddie's weight. The weight of our futures. Yes, there in that dark room, staring at me with as much love as one person can, Santana muttered:

"Marry me, Brittany Pierce."


	2. For How Long?

**LoneGambit: Ahh, old friend. If it's worth anything, I was extremely delighted to see your name pop up once more. And I am always so grateful for your kind words. I'll do my best with this one.**

**aprilthewelder: I'm most certainly glad. Stress because of something _I've _written? No such way. Lol. As always, thank you for taking the time to read and leave your input.**

**4evamuzic: Is it realism, or am I simply being an asshole? Lol. I love the pain and heartbreak, and will do my best in making this piece not mimic the other too heavily. Great to see you back in the reviews. Many thanks.**

**pictureofsuccess: Let us. Lettuce? I forgot what I was going to say. (Thanks.)**

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**Author's Note: ****I'm terribly sorry for updating so soon, but this bastard's been in the back of my mind for quite some time. Sometimes just meld together, and what else are we to do but run with them? **

**I'll be doubling this with my other current piece, which would be a shame to abandon. So bear with me, guys. But if it's consolation, I've got something of an idea of where I'd like this to go. Oh, and please pay special attention to the time indicators. I'm not a royal asshole, so I didn't list entire paragraphs in italics.**

**And as always, many thanks to those of you reading.**

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**_Disclaimer: I do not own Glee or any of its characters._**

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_**November- Twelve Months Earlier:**_

Hot water trickled down my neck. It splashed against my face, leaving a gaping area of cold to my back. The only thing that could have made a shower any better, and it did, was Santana, when she frequently covered the chilly area with her own body. Warmth. The security of two arms wrapped around me. Her chin propped up on my shoulder, saying, "Why don't you take the night off? We can go out, just the three of us."

It was quite the proposal. Lavish. A luxury that we couldn't afford. And I was forced to frequently make this clear, pulling my best friend from her dream state. "We can't afford to 'go out'," I said, reaching over and wrapping a hand around the back of her neck. "Besides, isn't tonight kind of a big deal for the diner?"

She groaned. Rolled her eyes. Though I could see neither, I could feel both against my shoulder blade as her head burrowed into my back. "Seriously, who holds an important client meet-and-greet at a _diner_?" She reached across me, retrieving our only can of shaving cream. I turned just as it was being lathered and formed along her chin. "Abraham Lincoln didn't have to put up with this shit."

I laughed the kind of hearty laugh that only Santana could elicit. I then took the can into my own hand, lathered the foamy emulsion, and spread it across the top of my lip. "Neither did Hulk Hogan."

Her groan quickly switched into a giggle. "You look like an out-of-work porn star."

"Yeah?" I teased.

She laughed into my ear. "_Totally_."

A mouth found its way to mine. Her tongue also danced alongside my own, distracting me from the real issue. The real issue having been the pair of hands that fit just on the underside of my thighs, lifting them one by one, coaxing me onto the shower's small ledge. Fingers trickled a bit lower. I could do nothing but wrap my arms around her neck, and then her back, finally settling somewhere in between.

This was a common occurrence, and not once did I protest.

A bone-chilling stream of cold water, on the other hand, did enough complaining for the both of us. It flipped in a mere instant, sending Santana's body hunkered over mine, protecting me from the showery equivalent of a snowstorm. Miniature icicles that pelted into our skin. The sound of metal clanked against our bathroom door. "LATE," a voice called out. The voice of a boy. Twelve, almost thirteen-years-old to be precise. For his age, a towering height of five feet four inches. And if I was the guessing type, I'd be almost certain that he was to blame.

Instead of yelling her once-frequent slew of Spanish curses, Santana merely started chuckling to herself. Her eyes met mine in enough time to playfully ask, "Is it too late to leave him on someone's doorstep?"

We dressed in a hurry. Barely took time to assemble the perfect outfits, as our teenage selves might have. Rather, we both skated through the one-legged pants dance, grabbing odd items needed for the day. Purses. Phones. With Eddie's boisterous, commanding orders, we found ourselves in front of the kitchen sink and brushing our teeth in a record seven minutes.

He quickly grew antsy. It was a big day in the land of middle school boys. Parent-teacher conferences. Santana and I recently played rock-paper-scissors for who would be granted the lovely task of playing parent for the day, and considering that she always picked rock, I was pardoned.

But it always saddened me when they left the apartment, and so I would do just about anything to make them stay longer. Even if it riddled Eddie with anxiety. And so, as we brushed our teeth in the kitchen sink, spitting huge globs of white where a scrap of food might go, I asked, "Do you love me, Ms. Lopez?"

It was a game we often played. Like clockwork, she snickered and responded, "Yeah, I'd say that was accurate."

Eddie tapped his foot. Crossed his arms impatiently. "How much, though?" I continued.

She cocked an eyebrow, the toothbrush dangling from her mouth, and extended both arms horizontally. Stretched out as far as they would. "Thith mush."

I did the same. "Thah muth?"

"Stop. Just stop it," Eddie interjected, not making it as far into the exchange as he did yesterday. "Cut it out before I vomit everywhere."

Santana rinsed her mouth out and looked to the boy, water dribbling down the front of her shirt as she asked, "Wuth wong, Eddie?" Her arms extended again. "Do you not luth uth thith mush?"

He grumbled, trying to duck as she extended the sink-side hose, dousing him. "Payback's a bitch," she said, hiding behind the nearest wall. Very James Bond-esque. Another spray. "But the taste of justice is so terribly sweet."

Around that time, his entire shirt was soaked. And when he mumbled a snappy return, one consisting of the terms "dick" _and_ "asshole", both Santana and I flashed a glance at each other. I intercepted his storming out. Bear-hugged him. Lifted his scrawny frame. Santana accompanied me, grabbing one of Eddie's legs and assisting in turning him upside down. We proceeded to administer a spur-of-the-moment kitchen sink swirlee. When all was said and done, we were all soaked.

"Now go change," Santana said, her voice taking on a serious tone. She then thumped him on the ear, finishing with, "And no cussing, dipshit."

A devilish smile crept across her face as she tore off down the hallway and into our room. Eddie stopped momentarily, pleading a child's innocent plea. "Can't you come with us? She's going to _embarrass _me."

"Better get used to it sooner than later," I said, placing a kiss to his temple.

He went to protest further, but was cut off by Santana's butt as it effectively nudged him out of the way. "LATE," she called out, almost laughing.

"They're going to make fun of me," he grumbled.

"Just tell them that you live with a fiery Latina who hasn't gotten laid in, like, a week," Santana continued. "They'll understand." Her attention then shifted to me as she smiled, giving me a hurried kiss. And as they reached the door, Eddie's backpack slung over her shoulder, she asked, "Wait up for me tonight?"

I smiled, poked my tongue out, and teased, "Always."

* * *

We were having plenty of sex back then. Making love, rather. Representing it in its truest, rawest, most innocent form. Sometimes quick, sometimes slow. Sometimes rough, sometimes gentle. But forever involved. Santana and I, we'd finally tapped into that special _something_. The "something" that allows a person to be free if nothing more. Free to move within the other. Free to love as openly and honestly as one can. It was a glorious balance to hang in.

That night, as I fell hard against the sheets, burrowing into Santana as deeply as physically possible, she seemed content. Breathing the slow, methodical cadence that she'd developed specifically for me. For us. It was warm. It was safe. It was secure. It was the puzzle I wanted to spend the rest of my life piecing together.

"You are quite possibly the most beautiful human being I've ever seen," she sighed into the night. What made it so special was that her eyes were closed. She couldn't see me. But she still made a point of letting me know. Santana was always doing this.

"Not so bad yourself," I said, playfully pinching her backside.

She winced. Opened her eyes, cocked an eyebrow at me, and placed a kiss on my nose. At that point, my head was creeping along her chest. Finding its usual place just underneath her jaw. Her hand skated just below my own mouth-to-face fixture, tracing the curvature. Two fingers gently lifted my mouth to hers. And when both pairs of lips finally met, we each gasped.

The old Brittany and Santana had that effect on each other. We were able to transform the most mundane, trivial occurrences into moments as special as their breathtaking firsts.

Her eyes softened. She dared to crack a smile. Such signs of joy were still new to my best friend, who'd still yet to fully trust anything that didn't come with a catch. Any act that didn't have profound consequences. They say that hindsight is twenty-twenty. If I'd known then what I do now, I just might've reveled in these simple moments a bit longer.

Anyway, I'd believed us to be in for the night. And we were, for the most part. Eddie had long since gone to bed. Carey was in her respective apartment just down the hall. We had no intruders that threatened to diminish our serenity. Santana must've sensed this, for after a quick breath, she reached across me. Her left hand fumbled along our nightstand while the right remained firmly wrapped around my back.

I immediately recognized the Crayon box as it came into my field of vision. How could I forget? That box had seen many a heartbreak. It once held the key that, should I have fully accepted the circumstance, would've made this scene unimaginable. Nonexistent.

"You know," she began almost painfully, words catching on her lips as they fought to fall free, "we're really fucking broke. As we probably should be, considering that the boy eats enough for the both of us."

I couldn't tell you why I laughed, but I did. Maybe it was her nervousness. The way she referred to Eddie as "the boy", even though she only did that on rare occasions. Maybe it was the truth of her statement. His growth was in full swing, draining our bank accounts as we tried suppressing his appetite. Santana even resorted to "indefinitely borrowing" food from the diner. Stealing was beneath her, but I didn't have the heart to explain that Lord Tubbington, before cancer claimed all nine of his lives, frequently "borrowed" cigarettes from his hoodlum feline counterparts.

"And I've said time and time again that you deserve the very best. The world, if I can manage," she continued, wrestling the ring I'd given her months before from her finger. It fit snuggly onto mine. "But I currently cannot manage, due to the fact that we live in a hillbilly town filled with hillbilly people that tip poorly enough to make a hillbilly grimace."

I laughed again. The times in which she was least put-together were my favorites.

"One day, though, homegirl here will give you everything and then some. More than you could possibly fathom. Shit that makes receiving the world look like child's play."

Another laugh.

She looked down, the outside moonlight radiating inside and reflecting off of the most gorgeous pair of brown eyes. "Do you understand what I'm trying to say?" she asked.

"No, not really," I answered half-heartedly. Santana was always giving me odd gifts. Always showering me with heartfelt compliments. This was just another Friday in the world of BSP.

She sighed, barely emitting a gust of breath. It fluttered against a lone tuft of hair. Rise then fall. "Marry me, Brittany Pierce," she finally worked up the courage to say. "Argue with me, fight me, hate me, and cuss me to the high heavens. But for the absolute love of God, just promise that you'll do it all in sickness and in health, until death do us apart."

I was extremely taken aback by her abruptness. It was playful, sure. But it took the strength of a thousand Spartans. And while strength was always Santana's strong suit, the strength to be emotionally vulnerable terrified her to no end. In fact, I was firmly convinced that while some people had nightmares about being kidnapped or murdered, the idea of professing love was enough to shake Santana from her deepest slumber.

This, though. _This._ It frightened me. Yes, I'd always envisioned spending the rest of my life at her side. Countless nights in this bed. Days spent doing whatever it is that older couples do. Play bingo, or something. But we were so young. So unstable. Security, financially or within our four walls, was a foreign concept. And so I muttered, "_Santana._"

She immediately sensed my apprehension. Jumped to the defense by way of a broken smile. Squeezed me tightly. Placed a kiss to my temple. "Just give it some thought. And should you have any doubts, please remember that above all else, I will always love you the most. _Always._"

"How much?" I tried joking, attempting to make light of my hesitance.

Thankfully, she grinned, extending both arms wide.

* * *

The morning after, I awoke to the familiar sounds of rustling in the kitchen. Santana was up, undoubtedly cooking for Eddie. Music blared over the portable radio. I groggily got up, still donning Santana's ring, and ventured toward my two favorite people.

_Why don't you say goodbye while you have someone to say goooooooooodbye to…_

They both dance, skating along the tiled floor. Using wooden spoons as makeshift microphones. Not bothering to end their impromptu concert on my arrival. If anything, an audience only intensified their efforts.

_Let's see how far we've come. Let's see how far we've come._

Their heads banged repeatedly as the chorus droned on. I took a seat, cheering them on with a hefty grin. It was a Saturday, and since the smells of chocolate chip pancakes penetrated my senses, but one thing remained to come. And it did. Just as soon as the song ended, as did their stamina. So we plopped down on the couch, plates stacked high. And while Tom and Jerry horsed around on-screen, Santana took her time in carefully administering glob after glob of syrup to the back of Eddie's ear.

"Not fair," the boy griped after our usual program ended. He'd lost yet another thumb-wrestling match to Santana, promptly earning kitchen-cleaning duties. "It's. Not. Fair. You always win."

"And I wouldn't always win if you didn't always suck," she taunted, smearing a last bit of maple syrup across his cheek.

Considering that I was already elbow-deep in a vat of warm water, busily tending to the dishes, I took the moment to prepare a rag. I'd learned to always keep rags by the sink. Because when you have two children under one roof, things are bound to get messy. Sticky, as that morning would have it.

He wiped clean, playfully retrieving the sink's water hose in Santana's approach. She used a plate as shield. What Eddie didn't fully comprehend was the scientific law that clearly stipulated that when one Latina traveled toward a much smaller version of herself, circular plate extended affront to combat the oncoming stream of water, physics would eventually win out. Surely enough, by their exchange's end, our adopted little one was one big sticky, soggy grouch.

Santana took Eddie's trip to the bathroom as a moment to sneak up behind me, threading both arms underneath mine. She breathed deeply, placing a kiss on my neck. Then, in the gentlest voice, she whispered into my ear, "Marry me, Brittany Pierce." When I hesitated once more, she smiled against my neck. "Thankfully, I've developed an ounce of patience, living with two hoodlums." She smiled again. Kissed me again. Squeezed me tight, as if I was the only person that could keep her feet planted firmly on the ground. "Because 'always' is a long fucking time."

"I thought 'forever' was?" I teased.

"Now you're just being technical." She then kissed me one final time, dressed for work while announcing that the "bills need a'paying," and frolicked to the door. "Wait for me, Ms. Pierce?"

I chuckled. "Need you even ask?"

* * *

_**Present Day:**_

It's around dusk when I'm permitted to leave work. Call me crazy, but I speed home in hopes of catching Santana before she's too sucked into the bad place. _Maybe she'll be cooking_, I allow myself to hope. _Maybe she'll be preparing dinner and singing and poking fun at Eddie. Just maybe._

I'm clearly no psychic and an even shittier guesser, it would seem. Because as the sun has been setting, slowly falling from the sky, deteriorating into nothing more than a soft glow, as has Santana's mental state. Because as I tiptoe into the apartment, making sure to close the door as noiselessly as possible, she is in the kitchen, attempting to microwave a can of carrots. Not a bowl of canned carrots. The actual can.

I sprint over and sling the door open, burning my hand on scorching tin as I retrieve the object. Santana blinks dumbly at me. "Where's Eddie?" I breathlessly ask, hand continuing to sting. We've agreed that he's the interim babysitter while I'm at work, and he's currently nowhere to be found. She ignores me. In fact, she continues in doing so until I say more loudly, "Santana."

"Rehearsals," she quickly dismisses, focusing on yet another can of vegetables.

I'm instantly thrown into a frenzy. Yes, Eddie enjoys participating in school plays. Yes, he frequently stays after to school to practice for said performances. But both points are moot considering that the holiday schedule hasn't even been released, let alone cast. That won't occur for at least a couple of months. I don't bother reprimanding her for not picking him up from school. Instead, I huff, roll my eyes, and sprint back outside.

When you're in a hurry, the drive to Lima Middle School takes roughly six and a half minutes.

Eddie's sitting where he usually does when this happens. At the elementary school playground, dead center of the merry-go-round-looking equipment. Where the bars run perpendicular. I pull in, flash my headlights twice, and wait for his arrival.

This is our routine. For going anywhere near the playground would be far too painful. Memories of Santana and I as children aren't something I can handle at the moment. After all, you wouldn't visit a person's sight of conception to commemorate their death, would you?

"She got caught up with something," I explain before Eddie steps foot into the car. This is routine, too. Me making excuses on the drunkard's behalf.

"If that's what they're calling it," he says, propping both feet on the dashboard.

We ride in silence as I adhere to the speed limit. The drive takes a bit longer. Grows more tense with each mile that the vehicle presses on. Eventually, though, as I turn into the complex's parking lot, nearing our building, Eddie says, "I'm staying at Carey's tonight." It's not a question but a demand.

"Umm, yeah, sure," I say hesitantly, driving a couple hundred yards further. "Just need to get out of the apartment for a while?"

"Something like that," he mutters, grabbing his pack.

It's bothersome, seeing him in such a funk. So I throw the car into park and grab his underdeveloped arm. "Hey, are you okay?" It's a dumb question. Questions are always dumb when you already know the answer.

But because he's a trooper, Eddie smiles and nods. Even if I can see through both, knowing that he's still trying makes everything hurt a little less. So I let go, purely on the basis of knowing he'll be safe with Carey. Knowing that he'll be safe away from—well, knowing he'll be safe with Carey.

"Promise that you'll come over if she gets too bad," he says, leaning through the driver's side window.

"Eddie, I'll be fi—"

"_Promise_."

I gulp and swallow in a cartoonish manner, but eventually agree with a simple head nod. "Yeah, I promise," I say unsteadily. Two arms then latch onto my neck, squeezing for dear life.

* * *

_If a girl sits in a car, bawling her eyes out for the better part of an hour, does she really make a sound?_

When I finally muster the courage to wipe my eyes clean and fight the uphill battle that's become of returning home, Santana is just as I left her. Sitting cross-legged on the couch, tending to a murky brown concoction. Over ice, of course. Even with her glasses dulling my direct line of vision, it's easy to see that her eyes are bloodshot beyond belief. "Awful lot of trouble, that kid," she casually points out when I gently shut the door, resting my head against the wood.

"Don't do this," I breathe, words echoing off of the hard surface.

"I'm just saying," she absently hums, "he's more effort than he's worth."

"Wasn't what you said back—oh, I don't know—when you suggested that we _adopt_ him," I snap. An uphill battle. A losing battle. Whatever the case may be, I still fight, convinced that if Santana could just understand, her attitude would change.

"And look where _that_ bright idea got me." Of course, I've been wrong before.

It's amazing how quickly a migraine can surface. Just behind my left eye, it thumps with the steady rhythm of a heartbeat. Pulsating in the most painful way. A quickly building Santana headache. "You knew what you were getting into," I suggest, as if the increasingly common suggestion makes any difference at this point. Same argument, different night.

Santana wouldn't remember, though. She's typically too far gone to remember what we had for dinner, let alone a heated conversation that arose hours later. Not like her memory really matters, either. Not when she possesses a temper to make up for whatever else might be lacking. "Spare me," she says, venturing into the kitchen for a refill. "It's not exactly like I agreed to these terms and conditions." A cap is unscrewed. Liquid pours. She slurps. "Sometimes it feels as though I was never given a fucking choice."

"_Listen_ to yourself, Santana," I argue. "If memory serves, _you've_ made plenty of decisions. Ones that _we've_ never second-guessed."

"Ones that had nothing to do with you," she sarcastically mumbles under her breath. "Either of you."

This is it. This is the road she's chosen for the evening. Though it's becoming more of a too-beaten path, considering that if Santana's behind the wheel, this is where we always head. Barreling forward at full speed. Sparing no casualties. And what's saddest of all is that when I go to yell, my voice is far too weak. Hoarse, almost. If it serves as any indication. "They had everything to do with us," I crack out, sounding like a fifteen-year-old boy first experiencing the drawbacks of puberty.

She merely laughs.

"But it doesn't matter," I continue, face undoubtedly turning a harsh red. "You're not listening. You never are." And this time, as Santana again laughs that cruel, ironic snicker, I spit, "I'm going to Carey's."

Only now does her demeanor shift. From lax and apathetic to panicked within a split-second. She ventures across the living room. Nears me as I reach for the doorknob. "Hey, hey," she coos, grabbing my upper arm. "Don't be upset. Please don't. Because then I'll start crying, and you'll start crying, and we'll both just be ugly sacks of slobber and tears." I fight the urge to crack a smile. I lose. "I _am_ listening, okay? Always."

Outstanding, the act she can put on. To the point of my almost falling for it. Each and every fucking night. But then the harsh fumes always trickle across the inched-out expanse, snapping me back to an even harsher reality. Biting back tears, I cannot even properly respond. Instead, I stand, shaking my head.

Santana's face falls, too. It always does when I'm most in pain. She's yet to fully grasp that she is, in fact, the source of our pain, but at least my best friend still possesses the foresight to recognize human emotion. Some nights, even that's asking too much. But tonight is different, and she further proves that by searching fervently for my eyes. As both pairs meet, Santana insists, "We'll work this out."

"Sex doesn't solve anything," I grumble too quickly.

"Doesn't hurt to try," she jokes.

I squint, searching for the slightest amusement backing her last comment. Not the inevitable. Not what, just as our arguments, comes every night. But if the Santana of late has taught me anything, it's that what you cannot prevent, you must prolong. Can't beat them? Slow them down. Distract them. And so I ask, "Did you at least go to today's session? The doctor said it was important that you make the meetings."

She didn't.

"Tomorrow. I promise."

She won't. Tomorrow never comes. Never has and probably never will.

And this is the end of our adult conversation. At this point, all I can do is feel grateful for Eddie's absence. These are precisely the kinds of interactions that my psychology professor says destroys families. Builds resent. And it bothers me purely because, somewhere deep inside of my chest, despite all current distaste for Santana's destructive ways, I want nothing more than for Eddie to love her as I do.

Once did.

My back is then pressed against the wall, Santana's front meeting mine and the image from earlier dominates my thoughts. Of the playground. Not of the mouth that currently and furiously works against my throat, but of children gathered, playing as children do. On that merry-go-round-looking toy, more specifically.

So desperately I desire to reach out to them. Warn their frail, believing spirits. _It might seem like a source of entertainment now, but you guys wait. Just fucking wait._ Because one day, ten, twelve years down the road, you'll understand how cruel that belief can be. I sure as hell have. The belief that you can step off of the contraption at any given moment. That this life is yours for the choosing. It's such a tease.

No, you'll spend every waking minute of your adult life trying to get off. Helplessly moving in circles. Chasing your tail. Utterly unaware of where you've started and where you're bound to finish.

Given the chance, I'd tell them, "_Only the lucky ones make it off. And only the luckiest fall anywhere close to the category of 'lucky'."_

Santana slips a hand under my shirt.

As you've probably gathered, Brittany Susan Pierce belongs to neither group. She's merely a victim of the hoax; the lure of prosperity and bright, flashy colors. She's completely and totally trapped by love's appeal. Drilled into the ground by its reality.

My pants are unbuttoned.

"_For how long_?" you might ask. "_For what ungodly amount of time must you endure this insufferable pain_?"

Well, dear friend, if we're being completely honest, there is but one unit of measurement capable of properly encapsulating my agony. One worth mentioning.

_"Always."_


	3. Hit and Run

**(My bad. Realize I'd fucked something up in the edit.)**

**JJLives: I'll tell you what: if I run this story into the ground or beat a dead horse, you'll be the first to tell me, yeah? Lol. But I thank you, and sure hope not to disappoint.**

**aprilthewelder: The "good" uncomfortable is what I like. Lol. Eh, well, maybe not. Ask me on another day. And I'm grateful that you're grateful for speedy updates. Sometimes I feel like I'm bogging people down, or whatever. As always, though, thank you for such kind words.**

**LoneGambit: Lol. I enjoy the happy moments, I really do. But happy is either a) a drag to write, b) a drag to read, or c) the most unrealistic thing of all. Then again, I've also made shit completely outlandish for the both of them, so maybe I'm just the world's biggest pessimist. I appreciate your trust and kind words, and I'll hopefully find an interesting way of going about the piece without just making it one big pile of bad. **

**4evamuzic: You've hit the nail on the head, my friend. And I'm most appreciative of your kind words.**

**pictureofsuccess: Well, I hope that I can hold onto your attention for a while longer. And if you read the last insert, then you'd probably hate me more than any one person could despise Ryan Murphy, and I suppose that's saying something. But I take all of it as a compliment, and appreciate you taking the time to read and review.**

* * *

**Author's Note: Sometimes I'll update a story, hold my breath, and think, "These people are going to have my head." So far, you guys have yet to do that, which makes me most appreciative. I'm wrestling between two routes that this story will take. Probably going to flip a coin. But, as seems to be my preferred style, it will most likely be heavy. Then again, I won't try to pile on the sad too terribly much. (Try.) So, I'm grateful for everyone who reads or leaves their input, for it means the world.**

_**Disclaimer: I do not own Glee or any of its characters.**_

* * *

**_Christmas Eve-Eleven Months Earlier_:**

It was Christmas Eve when we saw everyone from the glee club for the first time in a very long while. Rachel's dads were off on a cruise, and she'd decided to gather everyone up for a small soiree. "Light refreshments, good music, and a great deal of catching up," the invitation said.

Santana was hesitant at first, proclaiming that Hobbit was undoubtedly rounding everyone up to shove her and Finn's relationship down our throats. "Not even a full year out of high school and we're already forced to go back," she grumbled.

It took some convincing, but she agreed to go on the precedent that we leave just as soon as the Changs started making out. I nodded. Laughed at her duress. She did, too.

Everyone loved getting to see Eddie again. Especially Puck, who Santana kept a watchful eye over all night. More so, she took firm hold of Eddie's ear and said, "You try buying drugs again, I'm tearing it off." He winced. She pointed at Puck, just to make sure that he'd been watching.

The party went surprisingly swimmingly. Off without a hitch. Everyone took their turns singing and dancing. The Changs didn't make out. And the food, "kosher" as Rachel so proudly introduced it, wasn't half bad. Well, the first time going down. But after I'd found my way into the bathroom, hunkered over her dads' toilet, the Berry secret family recipe for salmon croquettes wasn't nearly as appealing.

Santana, who'd really gotten into the Christmas spirit by that point, insisted that we go home. "I'll be fine," I said, trying to allow her a moment of relaxation.

"Says the girl with puke in her hair," she laughed.

And so we left. The entire glee club group-hugged Eddie and wished us well.

She laid in bed with me all night, stroking my hair. Only getting up when I needed a glass of water or a bucket. She told bad jokes to make me feel better, and even let me lay my head on her chest, despite my breath reeking of vomit and fish.

We were promptly interrupted the next morning by a voice booming from the hallway. "CHRISTMAS," it announced. The voice then neared our bedroom, flung the door open, and cocked an eyebrow. "Did Santa skip out on our house or something?" Eddie asked. I was at a loss for words, not having considered that he might still be a believer. Santana, too, even seemed thrown off kilter. But the boy eventually cracked a sly grin and said, "Kidding. Now where are the presents, losers? I've been waiting for three hours already."

I looked at the bedside alarm. It was six thirty.

Santana, through half-lidded eyes, motioned him over. She then reached underneath our bed, pulled out a box that I'd wrapped the week before, and set it on her lap. Just as quickly, a hand lashed out and smacked the back of Eddie's head. "Firstly, don't be an ass," she said. "And secondly, merry Christmas, you ass."

He grinned, not bothering to tend to his most recent wound. Part of me believed that he'd become accustomed to her smacks. That they no longer had an effect.

"Righteous," he cooed, brandishing a couple of better-fitting shirts that we'd picked up at the mall one weekend. And when Santana reached under the bed a second time, he playfully flinched.

The box was slightly smaller than the original, but appeared far more densely packed. And if I had known about this second gift, I would've helped out in wrapping it. The look of delight on Eddie's face said otherwise. "You seem to have an interest in cameras and what not, so I figured that you could use this," Santana explained. It was true. He was always borrowing our phones, snapping pictures of the oddest things. Nature. Animals. The sky. Santana would make fun of him; call him a hopeless romantic.

But despite her jokes, there she was, giving him a small, handheld video camera. Sleek and shiny. Expensive looking. Eddie instinctively flipped the side panel open, toying with the gears as though he'd known how to operate them all along. Within a second, a red light beeped. The lens fixated on us. "Anything you'd like to say?"

Cool as a cucumber, Santana looked at me and chimed, "Imagine how much fun _we_ could have that bad boy." She then flipped from underneath me, settling in a hovering position. Two hands on either side of my head. Our faces centimeters apart.

With a look of disgust, Eddie instantly closed the flap. "Leaving."

We both laughed about that one for a little while. I still wasn't feeling all that well, so when Santana's body plopped down onto my own, I groaned. "I'll take that as an 'I love you, Santana Lopez. You are the light of my life. Merry Christmas'," she mumbled into my pillow.

"Took the words right out of my mouth," I joked. "And that _camera._ Talk about breathtaking."

Her head popped up and both eyes cut into mine. "_Yeeeeah._ We might be walking to class for a little while." And just as I prepared for a full blown meltdown, she chuckled. "Kidding, B. I had some extra cash saved up. You know, because I'm always preparing for the future and what not.

"Always," I mimicked.

She nudged me. "But since we're on the subject…"

"Glorious, glorious subject," I faux-moaned.

She returned with an equal look of fake disconcertment. Then our bodies kind of settled into each other's, fitting like two puzzle pieces. Santana smiled. Bit her lip. Cocked her head to the side. "Marry me, Brittany Pierce," she practically whispered.

"How many times are you going to ask?" I quickly teased out of habit. It's not like she'd been asking me every day since that first time. (She had.)

"As many as it takes, my dear." She then took on a very Wayne Campbell tone in saying, "Because you will be mine. Oh yes, you will be mine."

I proceeded to laugh until her head rested against my shoulder. I laughed until her breath was a steady cadence against my collar bone. I laughed until, through a yawn, I muttered, "_Already am_."

"What was that?" she mumbled back.

"Nothing," I chuckled. "Nothing at all."

* * *

_**February: Nine Months Earlier**_

Eddie was performing in his school's annual Valentine's Day program, and Santana and I were sitting in the audience, waiting for the lights to dim. She'd put me in charge of filming the event on account of my previous experience with recording. "Fondue For Two was a stroke of pure genius," she insisted. "Now make sure that the thing knows how to do the zoom thingy. I want plenty of blackmail-quality shots."

It wasn't until halfway through the performance that we had any issues. And they weren't technical, unfortunately. No, our problems came in the form of one very loud-mouthed man all of one row back. He kept going on and on about his real estate firm to the woman next to him, who appeared as disinterested as any one person can be.

Eddie was due onstage at any moment to dance his bit in "Love Shack". I could sense Santana's body tensing. Feel her knuckles growing white under my touch. Before I could take any preemptive measures, my best friend was turned around, eye to eye with the man. "Excuse me, but that's my kid up there," she said, pointing a thumb backward.

"Congratulations?" he scoffed, appearing ready to continue his previous conversation.

But Santana was already disgruntled, so she fully turned around, extended a finger, and tapped his nose. "Oh, excuse me once more," she said in a menacing tone. "You see, what I've been _trying_ to convey is that if you would so kindly PIPE THE FUCK DOWN, _we'd_ be most appreciative."

It was harsh, but enough. The man didn't mutter another word. Some of the other audience members looked ready to applaud Santana's efforts. I merely sat face forward, silently snickering to myself all the while.

Eddie absolutely demolished his performance (in a good way) and Santana suggested that we go out to Breadstix as a celebratory measure. I put up no protest as she requested our old booth. The booth we spent many date nights sitting in. Eddie squished his face together when I mentioned Santana and I in our olden days. But she just stared fondly at me from across the table, occasionally tickling my foot with hers. Mine accidentally caught Eddie's in various attempts to return the gesture. His face soured even more.

The night was everything that I'd wished our nights together would be like, up until we were outside, huddled around the car. Eddie went into a frenzy over having left his program in the restaurant. "No worries," I quickly hummed. "I'll go get it."

I did, and when I returned to our parking spot, Santana and Eddie had vanished. The car was gone. They were gone. I was all alone, mind the occasional passerby.

Don't ask me why, but the freezing February night had nothing on what I felt in that moment. Even as I sat down on the nearest curb, gently rocking back and forth. Rubbing my arms until I could no more. It was a wave of bone-rattling, internal, unnamed _numbness_ that washed over me. From my toes well up to the top of my head. It was the kind of feeling that could leave you shivering on the warmest of July nights.

Eddie had gotten over his nightmares, so why couldn't I get over that emptiness?

I wasn't left alone with my thoughts for too long, though. Eventually, headlights returned. I could see Santana and Eddie smiling through the front windshield. The car pulled up in front, and Eddie poked his head out, announcing, "Got her with the hit and run. Eddie and Ugly Eddie, one. Brittany, zero."

I didn't move. I didn't dare to budge an inch. I did, however, catch the look of remorse that quickly spread across Santana's face. In a split second, she slowly opened the door. Slowly climbed out. Even more slowly approached me. We were then sitting side by side on that curb when she draped an arm over my shoulder. "Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit," she eventually muttered, taking my head into her hands and pulling me into the crook of her neck. "It was just a bad joke, B. And I am _so. fucking. sorry._"

It took some coaxing to get me up. To break me out of the stupor. I was about ready to call it a night when we first made it to the apartment. Drained from earlier. Santana, though, had seemingly forgotten. Or was just trying to make the best out of a relatively shitty situation. For she dug into one of the lower cabinets, producing a bottle of champagne. She then retrieved three red Solo cups, filling them each about a fourth of the way.

"Compliments of one Rachel Berry Christmas Eve extravaganza," she hummed, topping off the last. One was extended my way. I waved it off. She smiled the proud kind of smile before looking to Eddie. "How old are you again?"

"Old enough," he laughed, reaching out.

It took a groaned "_Santana_" on my part for her to snatch it out of his reach. "Seems that I'm full of bad ideas tonight," she pointed out. "And evidently drinking alone." But then she made a toast to Eddie for doing the household a noble service this evening. "Most importantly, I commend you for outshining fuckface in the corner who thought that he could one-up _my_ kid. Cheers," she finished. All three cups' contents disappeared before we could mutter the same.

* * *

Sometime later that evening, Santana was in the middle of getting changed when she plopped down next to me on the bed. Both hands consumed mine. "About earlier," she began, biting back the words with a cough and dip of her head. "About earlier, B—I truly am sorry. I wasn't thinking. Neither of us were."

I forced a smile, not wanting to damper her previously heightened mood. "It's nothing to worry about."

"But it is," she insisted, squeezing my hands more firmly. "What Susan did to you is something that most people can never shake. It stays with you. It's always around, that experience." She bit her bottom lip again, eyes softening. "And as I've said before, always is a long fucking time. Especially to carry such a burden. But I want you to know that I'm always going to be here, too. For you, should that burden ever become too heavy. Always."

I mulled her words over. Closed my eyes and allowed them to resonate within. Took a lasting, courageous breath. Opened my eyes again. "An awful long time to be angry, too," I muttered. "You were pretty pissed off tonight."

"What can I say? I have rage," she tried joking, but I was well past jokes for the evening. She sensed this, too. "Okay, okay. It was just a flare-up. Completely minor. Nothing to fret over, honest."

"You know how I feel, Santana. I just don't want you going back to _that _place," I said.

She smiled, taking a pointed index finger and touching random points all over her face. Then mine. "See?" she asked, poking me again. "I'm as here as ever, and I'm not going anywhere."

"Even with what I'm about to ask?" I sheepishly offered.

"For my hand in marriage?" she teased, face simultaneously contorting into an odd expression. "Or is this one of those 'I'm going to need another' drink questions?"

You're probably wondering why I would've brought up some an ambiguous topic. But I've failed to mention something that came up the other night shortly after work, when I was dancing alone in the community center's studio.

There I was, dance, dance, dancing away, when a creepy-looking guy approached me. Given my history with anyone whose characteristics begin with "creepy", I probably should've sprinted in the opposite direction. But I didn't. Instead, I humored him and his creepy smile for a fraction of a second. Those seconds turned into minutes. And after a lengthy conversation about the benefits of exotic dancing, he handed me a business card. The idea wrestled in my mind all throughout the next week. Benefits, benefits, benefits. If there was anything that we needed more, it was those damn benefits.

So I pulled the card out, handing it to Santana. Her face wasted no time in souring over. "No fucking ma'am," she said, handing the card back. "Not a chance in the world."

"You didn't even read it," I pleaded.

"Forgive me for being a tad leery of any man who addresses his business cards with 'Big Daddy Joe'," she breathed. "And I did read it."

"Then you'd know that it's dancing," I insisted. "And that it pays well. Well enough to get us through the next couple of months."

She scoffed. "Seems that you're mispronouncing 'stripping'," she spat. A tense moment passed. I should've known better than to bring it up. But Santana took the card back, fumbling with it again. Flipped it over and scanned the back. She breathed heavily, rubbing at the bridge of her nose. "How am I supposed to keep you safe if you're out and about, getting twelve kinds of felt up by men half your age?"

"That's way too much math," I noted.

"What? No, B. I'm making a point," she said. "And the point is that I wouldn't feel comfortable knowing that you were all alone, surrounded by Pucks. Old Pucks. Grandpa Pucks."

I laughed at that. Chuckled heartily before tackling her further onto the mattress. Hugged her neck as best I could. "You're cute when you worry," I said. "But if you're worried about me swooning over anyone but you, Ms. Lopez, you're sadly mistaken. Cheap Viagra's far too difficult to come by."

Thankfully, she started cracking up, too. Her body convulsed with each, rocking mine. It was a solid minute before Santana ever muttered, "What are my parents going to say about me marrying a stripper, though?"

"Imagine what mine would say," I mumbled into her chest.

We both chuckled again, but it was the sad kind. Our conversations were always taking turns like that. Joyous one moment, remorseful the next. Santana, being the ever-sensing human that she was, quit laughing and took a deep breath before winding her hand through my hair. "Just a few months," she whispered. "And I get to keep watch."

I hugged her mid-section as tightly as possible. So much so that she almost hacked up a lung. And then we kind of just laid there, legs intertwined. I on top but slightly askew, parallel to her. The safest place in the world.

Enough time passed to where I considered her asleep. But then, out of nowhere, she started giggling again. To herself, much until I looked up from her stomach. Humming followed. An indecipherable tune, considering her snorting from laughter. "Oh, man. How ironic," she singsonged, smiling. "I'm in love with a stripper."

* * *

**_Present Day:_**

Eddie and I go to the Lopez's for dinner, just as we have every third Friday of month. Santana hasn't made the last three, four including tonight.

The meals are always pleasant. Maribel and Dr. Lopez have really warmed up to Eddie, and they're pretty tolerable of me, too. Maybe it's because I'm always helping out around their house. Maybe it's because I owe them an amount that I'll never be able to repay. Maybe it's because I haven't written them off just yet. Not like Santana has.

After feasting on an oddly colored casserole, Eddie runs off with Dr. Lopez to do whatever it is that guys do. Maribel and I are clearing off the table, a plate in each hand, when she casually and out of nowhere asks, "Is the back on her medication?"

I always tiptoe around the topic of Santana lightly, trying to spare as many detailed truths as possible. They were, after all, the people who vigorously tried keeping us separated so long ago. And so I halfheartedly say, "Self-medication."

"What about her therapy sessions?" she pries. "Has she been attending?"

It's always offensive when she grills me. Feels like an interrogation. Like that one time in court, when some lawyer thought he could pull one over on me. Humiliate me in front of everyone. Testy is the way to handle these situations. Keeps the Lopez mother on her toes. "Is she here, Maribel?" I sigh.

"Fair point," she grunts, wiping her hands on a towel. One of which grabs my wrist and leads me back to the kitchen table. "Which brings me to our next order of business. Something Santana's father and I have been thinking long and hard about." She folds the towel, uniformly clasping her hands atop it. "We'd like Eddie to come stay with us for the next little while. Just until matters are…sorted out."

Only now am I aware of the involuntary shaking of my head. "No. Not a chance in the world," I say.

She exhales sharply. "He'll be eighteen in what, six years?"

"Five," I interject.

"Five. Of course," she hums. "A boy his age needs a stable, loving environment."

"He's got that," I insist more fervently. "With Santana _and _me."

She scoffs in the Lopez way. Laughs at my seriousness. "Brittany," she begins but pauses, taking a sip of water. "Let's not kid ourselves. Santana is currently in no position to assist in raising a child. She can barely manage herself."

"She's doing just fine, Maribel," I interject once more. "Sure, she's a little mixed up right now, but that's the thing about Santana. She might get lost from time to time, but she always comes back. Always."

"You're delusional, my child. Absolutely deranged. A person can only take so many knocks before they stay down. The boy needs more _resilient _role models," Maribel explains.

"Holy shit," I quickly scoff, channeling my inner-Santana. "You think I'm to blame. For Santana being the way she is."

The older woman grunts, looking off to the back room where Eddie and Dr. Lopez ran off to. She returns to me, expression firmer. "If memory serves, you've had your struggles as well," she says very methodically. "But no one's here to pass judgment. We're merely looking out for the little one. No sense in losing a grandson, too."

"_I can't believe what I'm hearing_," I mutter.

But Maribel continues as if I've not spoken. "Now, we're prepared to get the authorities involved, should it come down to it. So I'm hoping that, for all of our sakes, you'll start seeing things our way."

"Authorities?" I question.

"Use your imagination," she says, cracking a smile. "We most certainly have."

* * *

"Rich," I mumble under my breath as Maribel goes to retrieve the boys from Dr. Lopez's study. "Right-fucking-splendid." And when Eddie exits, chatting up a storm with the older gentleman, a wave of sadness crashes over me. His little eyes cock towards me in a questioning manner, and I motion for him to follow me outside.

He tries opening the car door, but I've yet to unlock them. "Come here, bud," I say, propping my butt against the hood. "There's something that we need to talk about."

Eddie's a pretty decent judge when it comes to troublesome situations, and so he does as I ask without hesitation. But looking him in the eye is damn near impossible at this point. In fact, I have to look up toward the sky in hopes of keeping tears in their rightful place. You can't cry if you're looking up, I've discovered. The laws of gravity won't allow it.

Newton betrays me when Eddie nudges my arm, signaling for me to begin. I face the actual world again; hot, salty water messing up my makeup. "You know that I love you, right?" I ask.

He nods. "It's kind of impossible not to," he deadpans.

Thankfully, I manage to chuckle. Though it's through a newly stopped-up sniffle. "And you know that I would _never _do anything that I didn't believe was the best for you, right?"

He nods again.

"Well, you're going to stay here for a little while, bud. Just until Santana and I can figure things out."

He shakes his head. With vigor, if I might add. "Nah, dude," he half-laughs. "I'm going with you. _Home_. Where I'm _supposed_ to be."

"Eddie, this isn't a debate, okay? I'll come get you just as soon as everything's peachy again. I promise."

Only now does he deploy a tactic that worked on Santana so many times before. A Lopez-Pierce version of puppy dog eyes. First comes the casual lean. Second, the hand grab. Last, a gentle cowering of the eyebrows. Inwardly slanted at just the perfect angle. Soft but firm. Relaxed but tense. "Hey, I'm going home with _you_," he says like some sort of mini Jedi. "Who else is supposed to keep an eye on the baby while you're away?"

I chuckle, vividly recalling the nickname we've assigned to Santana on her bad nights. It's our own little _"Elvis has left the building."_

Christ. What has this kid done to me? "I'll tell you what," I hesitantly offer, gnawing at my lip. "You can come with me if, and only if, you're extremely sneaky about it, okay? Top secret type stuff." He nods insistently, working to suppress a devious grin. "Good. But we need a solid plan of action. I'm thinking something along the lines of that prank you and Santana once pulled on me."

"The infamous hit and run," he says quickly and fondly, as if recalling a grand memory.

I force a smile. One that even he can't see through. "Right. A hit and run. Good. Great. Grand," I continue, fueling his fire. "Now, once you're inside, you're going to tell them that you've left your favorite jacket in the car."

"But I don't have a favorite jacket," he insists.

"You do now."

We both grin like two evil masterminds and nod in understanding. He turns to leave, but stops short, pointing a finger back at me. "And once we're gone, will there be ice cream?"

"You can even pick the flavor this time," I answer.

"In a cone?"

"Your choice," I offer.

"Sprinkles?"

"_Every. Damn. One._"

All goes according to plan as he dashes back up the walkway. There's a moment where he pauses to collect himself and flash me a toothy grin. I do the same. A small inlet of light appears against the night. His body eases inside.

And just as soon as the light disappears, his small frame with it, I punch the accelerator, not once bothering to look back.

* * *

Santana is on the couch when I return. She's lying on her back, staring at the ceiling. I stand quietly, waiting for a hint of acknowledgement. "Two nights in a row?" she slurs like the drunken baby that she is. "I'm starting to believe that the boy no longer enjoys our company."

"He's at your parents'," I mutter.

Her ears perk up at the statement. She struggles in sitting upright, but eventually does, smirking that devilish smirk. A troublesome grin. "You don't like my parents enough to let him stay over. Hell, _he _doesn't like them enough for that." Then both hands clutch the cushion's bottom. Her body leans forward. An edge-of-your-seat reaction. "Holy shit. You left him there, didn't you?"

"It's more complicated than that," I grumble. "And we'll discuss _that_ in the morning."

But she's persistent, this new Santana. "I'll be damned. Brittany Pierce, you ballsy motherfucker," she singsongs. "_You did. _You took off. Pulled a Susan and _ditched. his. ass._"

"Not tonight, Santana. Not tonight."

"_Not tonight, Santana_," she mocks, mouthing the words to herself. "_Not tonight._ You're a real piece of work, B."

I don't stick around on the account of individual heaves that suddenly fill my chest. They blow up like balloons, pause, and deflate, allowing me but a second's breath. My head spins. Tears threaten to break free, but hold their ground. The bed is my only saving grace at this point.

Oh, how I hate Santana's words. How true they are. Is it possible that I've become the one person I've sworn to never be? If Santana, mind and speech hindered by drink, can see this, then Eddie undoubtedly can. At least, he should've realized by now. Unless he's outside, waiting for me. Convinced that I'm merely pulling a prank. I can see it now—him sitting on the sidewalk, thumbs twiddling, hand furiously rubbing at the back of his neck. _Fun's over, Brittany_, he's probably thinking. _You can come get me now._

Oh, God. I'm choking. One of the balloons has made its way into my windpipe, expanding and collapsing with each inhale. Cutting off every molecule of oxygen that's determined to keep me alive.

Santana enters the room. She crawls into bed. "Are you awake?" she asks, poking my cheek. Surely, she must feel how hot it is. How soaked from tears. And if Santana does, then my sadness no longer has any effect on her. Our struggle is no longer shared.

Then again, it hasn't been for quite some time now, has it?

* * *

The next morning is a difficult one to face. The sun is more excruciating. All that surrounds me is less forgiving. Threatens to crush me at any given moment. I dare to peek inside Eddie's room. It's empty, sure, but the space _feels_ empty, too. Like every presence he's ever held in this apartment has been removed. Sucked clean by a single, heat-of-the-moment decision.

Santana is up and about, humming to herself somewhere in the bathroom. From a distance, I watch as she dry-swallows four aspirin. A painful grimace follows. When I finally muster the courage to approach, her back is turned to the mirror as she reaches over, inspecting the plethora of scratch marks that litter her skin. "Did I lose a fight to a brier patch or what?" she playfully asks.

I plop individual white splotches of ointment over the cuts. She occasionally winces if one is still too tender. "Not funny," I scold. "Not funny at all."

Her eyes cut to the mirror as she quickly yanks her shirt back down. "A total fucking riot, actually."

We both march down the hallway and into the kitchen, me following her heels closely. I sit patiently as she downs a cup of coffee. Then another. She flings the refrigerator door open, seemingly displeased with the options, and shuts it as furiously. "I'm cutting class for the day," I casually mention. "There are some important things that we need to discuss."

Santana darts back down the hallway, peeling last night's shirt from her body. The sounds of drawers being dismantled follow. I don't jump at the noises. Not anymore. She's back in the kitchen just as quickly, throwing her hair into a ponytail as she retrieves her purse. "I'll be back later."

"Then I'll wait up," I offer.

"Don't worry about it," she returns, reaching for the door.

It flings open, just as the refrigerator. A gust of cool November wind trickles in. Santana isn't wearing a coat, but her catching cold is the least of my concern. "At least tell me when you'll be home," I insist. "So I won't be worried sick."

She doesn't bother in turning to face me. In fact, I almost don't catch the "Later, Mother" she spits before the door slams shut.

Never before has a space felt so devoid of life. There are traces of living creatures, but nothing substantial. There is clutter, but none belonging to a specific person. There is disorganization, but not the kind of chaos that is easily identified. There are empty takeout boxes, but no dishes. Simply put, there are four walls, but there is no home.

I fight the urge to lash out at her stray clothes that cover the couch. It takes everything in me to not take a bat to her glasses that litter the coffee table. I resist the desire to scream. To cuss. To cry. Santana is all around, it seems. She's everywhere and nowhere at once.

Cleaning once took my mind off of things, but it no longer works. For the more the more that I dig, the more I might find. And the more that I find, the more I hate myself for looking in the first place.

I lie back against the couch. Try to imagine what makes it so appealing. The furniture is rather uncomfortable. Worn and ragged. Lumpy. Santana insisted that we keep in the move. Said it had history. Sentimental value. I can only imagine what we'll think of it a year from now.

Something pokes into my back. A sharp corner. I dig a hand underneath, fingers grazing wooden material. A hefty tug surfaces one very familiar looking box. Simple and elegant, painted red. My breath catches as I open its lid. Inside, envelopes upon envelopes. Rectangular pieces of white paper that hold an entire history of their own. The letters that Santana and I exchanged in what feels like a lifetime ago.

The first is written in red Crayon, addressed to the Lima Municipal Center. Upon further inspection, I realize it to be the very first extension of contact that I made after that fateful night at Karofsky's. It's full of pointless ramblings. The second is no different. The third. The fourth. They're all filled with humdrum remarks of glee club, McKinley, and Lord Tubbington.

Each corner is faded. The creases are weathered. It's as if these letters have been read and reread many times. Yellow splotches sporadically cover various areas. Cigarette smoke stains, more than likely.

Santana's been keeping a watchful eye on these, it would seem. Why else would they be shoved deep underneath the sofa? Then again, is that even the idea that should be dominating my thoughts right now? Or should I be considering why, after all this time, she would dare delve into the past? Why put herself through the misery of reliving painful memories?

Why anything at all?

I remember the one letter that she wrote me in return. The words are engrained into my brain. The emotion into my heart. That was a long time ago, though. My mother had the decency to burn the physical copy. Had she not, I'd probably be sitting here right now, sobbing over the heartfelt words in Santana's leaving. It explained so much, yet left me feeling so desolate. So deprived. How badly I wanted her to stay, when circumstance forced her away.

Well, I forced her away.

Santana talked frequently and heartily about fear in that letter. Fear of taking me for granted. Fear of not being able to protect me. Fear of the reckless means she had to take in order to see to it that I was well-guarded.

Funny thing, her being afraid. I used to be afraid, too. Terrified. Particularly when we'd go visit Carey and Bernadette, back when she was still alive. Becoming like her was the most petrifying idea. Not being able to remember. Forgetting the important tidbits. Forgetting the important people. Those closest to me.

But now, as I sit here, heart breaking at the slightest memory or artifact, I would give anything to be like Bernadette. But forgetting is the easy part. Bernadette had the luxury of simply not remembering, which is by far the more difficult of the two. Because when a memory is engrained into your very being, there's no shaking it. And that way, no matter how destructive or insightful, you're destined to carry the past like a weight strapped to your back. Dragging your feet along, barely inching by.

If I could just forget the kind, gentle, and loving soul that Santana used to be, I could move past this current version. If I could just not remember our second grade, middle school, or high school selves, then I could easily stop loving our adult selves.

Forgetting's the easiest, though. Not remembering is what's most difficult. And if I could sit down and have a chat with one BSP of the past, I'd laugh at her for trying so insistently to make Santana remember. Who we were as children. Who we were when we fell in love. Because we're so clearly _not_ anymore. Because you can't staple these letters together and create some grand future.

At this point, though, even if it were possible, I'm not sure that I'd try.


	4. Ghosts of the Past

**JJLives: Well, I'm most grateful that you would spend your hard-earned break on something like this. And I'm appreciative that you would somehow empathize with Brittany. That's the main point, after all. Lol. As always, what I appreciate most is your taking the time to read and comment.**

**LoneGambit: If there's anything that I've consistently thought about your reviews, it's how you manage to understand. Not just what I'm trying to say, but that there could possibly be something deeper, even when it doesn't seem that there is. So, to make a potentially long response short(er), just know that I'm grateful for your input, even when it's not formatted as "input" at all.**

**Brittanaloverforeverandalways: Friend, I can promise nothing but that I will try my best to make a decently happy/realistic ending.**

**4evamuzic: Is it bad to say that I'm appreciative of that pain in your gut? Lol. I'm glad that you remember so much from the first. And I'm certainly thankful for you taking both the time to read and comment.**

**aprilthewelder: For the love of God, don't die on me. Lol. And if it's any consolation, I don't merely see these "speed bumps" as "interesting" for interesting's sake, if that makes sense. I'm not as sadistic as both stories would hint at. Lol.**

**pictureofsuccess: I appreciate you having the foresight to recognize a story within the bullshit. Lol. And while I'm sorry for bringing you down in the least, I'm most grateful for your kind words, and you taking the time to endure the soul-sucking nature of this piece and tolerate it.**

**Anongurl (Guest): I've missed you as well, lol. I hadn't disappeared, and I'm most grateful that you're hanging around to check out the next.**

* * *

_**Author's Note: **___**Always great, having you guys here to discretely tell me how close I'm dancing to the ledge. Lol. If it serves as any help, I'll leave a quickly-conceived quote by which this piece will be crafted: "Good shit happens to make the bad bearable, and bad shit happens to make the good so much better."**

_**Disclaimer: I do not own Glee or any of its characters.**_

* * *

_**Early March- Eight Months Earlier**_

It was my third night of working as a dancer when Santana first found trouble. In her defense, she _was _minding her own business. But there was this bachelor party and they were drunk and they were being loud and…well, my business quickly became Santana's that evening.

Her hand came quick. Torn between a punch and a slap, there was enough force behind it to flatten one semi-grown man out. And to make a potentially lengthy story short, someone complained, someone else called the police, and another someone made sure that we stayed put until the entire situation was resolved.

Well, it was. It was resolved with a couple of groans from Santana's most recent parole officer—those guys were always coming and going—and a suggestion that she take classes. "A therapeutic means to an otherwise stressful situation," the man called it. I didn't want Santana to feel as though there was something wrong with her. I also didn't want her getting into any more trouble. The entire ordeal was sticky. And most importantly, it was the first time I couldn't actively seek out my best friend's advice. I was alone in the matter.

And so I agreed to the anger management classes on her behalf. She was upset at first, but eventually settled into the idea when I offered to accompany her.

"You ready?" I asked her on the first night, standing just outside of the church where the sessions were held.

"Not really," she sighed, taking hold of my hand.

We marched inside, seemingly ready to tackle the better part of Santana's troubles. The blank faces that met ours suggested otherwise. There were about seven or so people, each looking more troubled than the one before. There was Baggy Eye Woman, Too Much Lipstick Lady, a scrawny fellow who couldn't stop shaking, and Camouflage Man. And that's a generous observation, because he was decked out, head to toe, in an emulsion of green, brown, and black. Combat boots to match.

"Hard to function with a couple of homos in the room," he noted just as soon as we approached the semi-circle of chairs. I could feel Santana's palm squeezing the life from mine. A miracle she didn't break any bones.

Thankfully, the circle's ringleader, an elderly-looking woman of about sixty, clapped her hands together and insisted that we sit. Santana was asked to introduce herself. She was then welcomed by everyone but Camo Man. Instead, he made it a point of talking frequently and pointedly over the course of the next hour. Often referring to Santana and me as "the homos". I tensed up just about every time that he did, and not because of the title, but from my best friend's inevitable reaction.

The inevitable showed up just minutes before end time.

"Does anyone hear that?" she eventually breathed, arms crossing. Then her eyes glanced across the circle, landing on Camo Man. A look of faux-surprise spread over her features. "Well, my homo eyes be damned. Jim Bob, I thought we'd lost you." She grinned from ear to ear. "Be careful where you sport that fancy getup, or one of your dudebros might not see you and accidentally slip it in." Santana made it a point of connecting her left thumb and forefinger, sliding the opposite index finger through, and winking.

I knew what she was doing. Even as Camo Man's voice grew loud, protesting her crude behavior in a sacred establishment, Santana kept taunting. "Hillbillysayswha?" she would tease.

Instead of praising hefty dialogue amidst the group, the meeting's leader asked that we leave. We did.

She started laughing manically in the car. I did, too, but more nervously. Afraid that she might break something in an instant. But she kept on howling. Leaned the driver's seat back and allowed her body to shake with each roar. I waited. Maybe it, too, would pass. Her eyes eventually cut over to mine, tears of amusement filling them. "It's like Dr. Seuss's gay son took over the family trade," she said. A finger pointed to me. "Homo One." A finger back to her. "Homo Two."

I giggled a little less apprehensively then. As long as she was cracking jokes and not body parts, all was well. "Are you all right?" I asked. She emitted a deep wind of air before nodding. "Good," I said. "Because next week—"

"Hold it. Next week?"

"Well, yeah?" I deadpanned. "They're recurring meetings. Recurring as in—"

Her explicit look of annoyance cut me off. Then she the killed the vehicle's engine, opened her door, and walked around to my side. "Then you may as well drive us home, because my plan included running over at least half of these bastards."

* * *

"You don't think I'm crazy, do you?" she asked later that evening, when we were both getting ready for bed. "Like, the therapy's just a formality, right?"

My biggest fear was quickly coming to life—Santana thinking that accepting help was an admission of defeat. She'd come so far in the past fourteen months, and all progress was about to be ruined.

That was her biggest flaw. Well, not the pride, temper, or caring heart. It was Santana's self-awareness. How well she'd come to terms with many of her demons, regardless of how minute. My best friend was a girl who could be lost in the jungle of her own mind, yet be able to pinpoint exactly where she was. My best friend subsequently just didn't know how to lead herself out of the mess, and it absolutely killed her.

I couldn't allow that to happen.

"Just a formality," I soon assured, bouncing atop the mattress. "If Uncle Sam could have it any other way, then so would I."

A noise sounded from above. A distraction. It was undoubtedly the upstairs neighbors, either fighting or having the roughest sex of all time. Both were possibilities. "Yeah, well, I blame Uncle Sam," Santana chided, scouring the floor for her trusty baseball bat. "That asshole's turned me into one big ball of crazy." She pounded on the ceiling. "Him and OUR FUCKING NEIGHBORS." She pounded two more times before the racket ceased.

I giggled, soaking in one very perturbed Santana. I giggled until the racket returned, obviously directed at our way. At least, that was what the fresh trickle of white, chalky material falling from above pointed to. Santana couldn't help but laugh, either, as her body hunkered over mine, protecting me from the shower of dust. And as she fiddled with the sheets, wrestling one from underneath me and pulling it over our heads, I kept laughing. You couldn't help but. Especially when it was such an accurate metaphor for any incident involving the two of us. _Sure to come crumbling down._

"Rough sex or just a fight?" I asked from under the shelter of our thin blanket.

Santana craned an ear upward. "The first," she deadpanned. But as continuous shouts to the Big Man trickled down, she added, "Or bible study."

"Enough to get a girl back in church," I hummed under my breath.

My humming could've used some serious work, because Santana cocked the quirkiest eyebrow at me, grinning from ear to ear. She then paused for the better part of three seconds before saying, "Fuck it" and peeling her shirt off. There was a two second gap before the bra followed.

"What are you doing?" I asked when she tried doing the same to me.

"Brittany," she cooed, leaning up and dragging the sheet with her. She looked like a ghost. "You've basically solidified that we'll be struck by lightning." She hovered over me yet again. A hand snaked its way up the front of my shirt. "It's really go big or go home at this point."

* * *

_**May-Six Months Earlier**_

"Fuck it" and "go big or go home" were the two mantras Santana lived by during those following months. And they were every night before one of her "special meetings," as we'd generously named them. A shot or two was all it took. Just to calm the nerves. Cut the edge off of whatever snide comment Camo Man had conjured up for the evening.

I never asked where the stuff came from, and she never bothered explaining. After all, Santana's coercive ways had helped our family many times before. There was no need to question them. Nothing was broken, so we saw no need for fixing.

But these rituals began changing at roughly the same time that my work scheduled became less forgiving of hers. Therapy started at seven o'clock. The Club opened at eight.

She was understanding. After all, a roof over our heads trumped suppressing the rage on all fronts. And like clockwork, she would leave the small church where said sessions took place, speed over to The Club, and keep watchful eye from a corner booth.

One night, though, Santana was late in showing. I'd made it a habit of keeping equal watch over her as she did me, seeing to it that no more outbursts were provoked. She'd wandered in about an hour later than usual, and when I had a free moment, I made it a point of asking why.

"Chick from the meeting after needed a ride home," she nonchalantly explained. "Evidently, half of those people in Alcoholics Anonymous aren't allowed to drive."

I nodded. Santana's gracious ways were also something that I'd fallen in love with. They'd helped our family out when manipulation hadn't.

And so that was that. The "chick", a girl named Vanessa, was decent enough to fork over money for gas. I had no complaints. Not even as Santana started meeting me later and later. Sometimes, not at all. Even on nights when therapy wasn't scheduled. But she always came home, my best friend. And so long as Santana was coming back, just as I'd known her to, my lips were sealed.

Where there was smoke, though, fire surely followed. For the Vanessa girl began joining Santana in her usual booth. Ordering drinks for the both of them. Chatting up a storm and playfully taunting me from afar. I still had no concerns. Nothing extremely prevalent, at least. The girl was pretty but not a threat. Charming but not flirtatious. She possessed many qualities similar to mine, but she clearly wasn't me.

You probably don't believe it now, but I could tell. Santana's eyes still glowed with that magical twinge when she looked my way. Her breath still hitched whenever she kissed me. There was no need for worry. Not when this new character kept my best friend's temper at bay, an effect that the meetings didn't seem to have.

That was the primary goal, after all. Keeping Santana out of trouble. Keeping her happy. Keeping her occupied. Vanessa did all three.

But weeks later, on a night that neither Santana nor Vanessa were present while I danced, Santana wouldn't answer her phone. I called three times. Left two voicemails. Tried sounding urgent but not too needy. With enough hours' passing, though, she eventually came home. Granted, it was three o' clock in the morning and she staggered throughout the apartment like a newborn calf, but Santana was home and in one piece.

She was terribly giggly, too. "Did you know that there's a drink named the 'Nipple Slip'?" she laughed, falling onto the couch. "A nipple slip," she kept repeating, on the verge of tears with each.

I laughed as well. "Quite the name," I joked, sitting next to her.

"_Nipple_," she hummed. "Kind of like the time you thought there were pepperonis in your bra. Remember that, B?"

"All too well," I answered, trying not to sound disappointed. It wasn't the sly reference to a high school mishap, but the vile smell that floated off of her words. The odor of cleaning fluid, as I'd come to compare it. A taste that I no longer possessed, but a clear liking of Santana's, if Christmas Eve had been any indication.

Eddie eventually wandered from his room, groggily rubbing at both eyes. "Dude," he began, but the words were soon replaced by a stupid grin. "She's hammered."

"And about to get nailed," Santana slurred, quickly hopping up and beginning to crawl onto my lap.

I had to act, and I had to act quickly. "No ma'am," I hummed, taking hold of her wrists and pressing them together. Then, leaning around her, I said to Eddie, "Bed. Now."

But he was in the kitchen, rummaging through one of the drawers. Ignoring my authority. Santana didn't necessarily resist my previous decline, but playfully fell forward, head resting on my stomach. "Not _you_," I said, poking her face. She was already asleep, though. Mouth open and everything.

Eddie showed up seconds later, brandishing a black marker. "A penis on the face keeps the drinking at bay," he said menacingly, uncapping the object. And before I could untangle my hands from underneath Santana's dead weight, he was already fast at work. Making smooth strokes from her mouth to her forehead. "Poetic, if I do say."

It was too late by the time I snatched the marker from his hand. "Go to bed," I spat.

Morning couldn't come quickly enough. I'd remained in the same position all night, eventually tossing Santana's body onto the couch, but not out of leg's reach. She proceeded to lash out each time I'd attempted dozing off. And when the sun finally rose, shining in through both living room windows, spirits were all but high.

Santana groaned. She rolled over and placed a hand to her eyes. "Jesus Christ," she moaned. "I've been hit by a bus. I've been by a bus _and _a train. I've been—" But she hopped up and dashed to the bathroom before ever finishing the last statement.

The sounds of heaving followed. More specifically, the sounds of practiced bird calls. I didn't get up, but dared to allow my eyes to drift off. That is, until an ear-shattering scoff rang out from the hallway. "I'M GOING TO _KILL_ THAT KID." Instinctively, my eyes shot open and I darted from the couch as well.

Thankfully, the sounds of struggling were not from an attempted murder. Instead, they were the product of one Latina atop one boy, his shoulders pinned underneath her knees. She was busily shoving a sock into his mouth while simultaneously waving a Sharpie about. One hand gripped his chin, holding it in place, as the other carefully started doodling.

Admittedly, I was too busy thinking about food to intervene.

"He looks like Tina," I later pointed out, tending to a bowl of cereal. "He looks like Tina if Tina did her makeup in the dark."

Santana laughed and rolled over in bed. I was already up and about, preparing for a late-morning class. History. Eddie was off at school, compliments of yours truly. Something that almost didn't happen because Santana was insistent that we drop him off at a gay bar and "let him find his way home."

"I'm calling in today," she said, pulling the bed sheet over her face. "I'm calling in on account of death."

I chuckled, gently sitting down next to her. And then a moment passed before I asked, "Are we going to talk about it now or later?"

"Dead people can't talk," she quickly murmured. I nudged at the newly concealed lump, to which the concealed lump groaned. "_Later_," it breathed. So I patted the lump, kissed where the lump's head should be, and collected my things. But the lump revealed itself as I neared the bedroom door. "You still have to marry me, Brittany Pierce. You have to marry me _and_ my dick-clad face."

I laughed, turned, and slung the backpack over my shoulder. "Whatever you say, my dear."

* * *

_**Present Day**_

The weeks crawl by at a crippled snail's pace. They tax me. Drain me. Physically, emotionally, spiritually. Eddie's yet to call. I've yet to, either. My cowardice is obvious. My childish belief that should I avoid an issue long enough; it'll either disappear or resolve itself. No such thing will occur. And should I ever forget, Santana's kind enough to remind me.

Santana.

She's very rarely at the apartment anymore. Often coming and going as she pleases. Stopping for food or a shower. Not bothering to speak. So quiet, in fact, that I frequently have to seek out the smell of cigarette smoke just to find her. To ask her a question. I also leave little notes in that letter box of hers, should she ever slow down for an evening. The most recent: _I miss you_.

But it's quite all right, I suppose. Because right now, she's here. Digging through the practically barren refrigerator, but here, nonetheless. "You got any cash?" she calls out, balancing both a cigarette and week-old carton of Chinese in her hand.

"What for?" I ask.

Her body relaxes against the counter. "For a field trip, Brittany," she grunts. "I'll also need you to pack me a lunch while you're at it."

Even her jokes have started to suck. I'm desperate enough, though. Admittedly so. Desperate for just _one_ night of mental sanctity. A worry-free twelve hours. So I go out on a limb. Speak before I no longer possess the courage. Throw caution to the wind and quickly say, "Love me like you used to, Santana." _Okay, too desperate. _"What I mean is…spend the night with me. Lay in bed with me. I won't even make us watch Sweet Valley High."

Her mouth goes to form a protest, so I press on, interrupting. "I just—" And it's suddenly too difficult to say. Like something too shameful to admit aloud, because verbalization gives life to the things we'd much rather remain dead. But I'm learning to pick my battles with her. Momentarily cowering in hopes of gaining the overall victory. "I really need you, Santana," I admit. "Tonight, at least. Just don't leave. Please."

Laughter follows. The menacing kind. "Don't guilt me, Brittany," she says, shaking her head but smiling. "Don't lure me in with this 'woe is me' spiel, only to slap some bullshit lecture on me later." She relights her cigarette. "I'm not having it."

"Hey," I coo, inching closer but keeping out of arms' reach. "This isn't a guilt trip. And I don't want an argument, either." I pause. Allow the words their desired effect. Give way to the hindered processing time this current Santana operates under. She blinks, which means that she's still here. "Like I said, I just want my best friend back. At least for one night."

"You're doing it again," she mumbles. But there is no initial break for the door, which means that my argument must have broken through. Must hold some validity, or else she'd be yelling right about now. Gesticulating wildly as Spanish curses flew all around. Cussing me, undoubtedly.

Even as Santana moves toward the door, I remain hopeful. And for the first time in the longest while, sheer optimism wins out. For she opens the front door, tosses her cigarette outside, and looks back to me, sullenly nodding.

It's difficult, getting her to settle down. She's far too antsy. First, she's even hesitant about lying down. Next, she can't find a comfortable position, frequenting between on her back and side. It hurts me, seeing her in such a state of duress. _Just let her go. Give her what she wants, and she'll start to feel better_. I don't, though. Instead, I wait as patiently as possible, allowing her however long it'll take to wind down.

And she eventually does. It's awkward at first, but I soon inch closer, just enough for our arms to graze each other's.

I don't say anything, honoring the no-arguments policy. This means remaining completely silent, for just about any remark is enough to set her off. She doesn't speak, either. Occasionally sighs, yeah, but keeps to herself.

"Thanks," I say. She hums in response.

Enough time passes for me to fully understand that we're complete strangers. Our bodies no longer possess the warmth that they used to. I keep desperately searching for the spark she might have once ignited, but it never comes forth. Not even when I close my eyes, squeezing them tight, and pray for that feeling.

Santana manages to break my internal dialogue with a hefty groan. With a shift of her body. "This has been great and all," she says, voice trailing.

"But?"

I can feel her shrug against the bed. "But it's time that you love me like _you_ used to."

The words cut into me. Anger me. Swallow me whole and spit me out. It's not an invitation but a challenge. Denial as a grotesque means of affirmation. Santana knows how I'm feeling. She must. For she once tended to my frail, drunken spirit. She exemplified patience in a time that crept by all too slowly. She was the foundation upon which our unstable love was built. And now, she's doing everything that she can to knock it down.

I know what Santana's hinting at, and I detest her for it.

But if pain has become our common ground, and accepting her bait is the only way I'll ever be able to communicate my true emotions, then so be it.

Pain is love, right? Love is pain. Santana and I, we're just searching for a happy medium.

So I cower. Like the lowly being that I've become, I climb from bed, hand trailing and eventually taking firm hold on one of her thighs. Then the other. A quick tug pulls her to the mattress's edge, where I stand.

"Stay," I spit when she tries meeting me halfway. When her hands persist forward and try fiddling with my clothes. When she tries leaning up and pressing our mouths together. "Stay."

Her hips lift when I've finished unclasping her jeans' button. "I'm not a dog, Brittany," she groans.

"And you're also not getting laid, should you move a muscle without my say-so."

I sound harsh, but abrupt is the only language Santana understands anymore. She's made this explicitly clear. "_Now love me like you used to_." A fresh wave of anger, bitterness, and malice washes over me. Even as Santana nods and blinks in the manner of a newborn, I find no sympathy worth extending. Not now.

Is it possible to hurt Santana as badly as she's hurt me? The sixty-four fucking thousand dollar question, it would appear.

"Could you at least kiss me?" she breathes out as I kneel onto carpet at the bed's edge.

I shake my head, tugging at her underwear. "You taste like cigarettes."

"All right, Forrest Gump," she grunts. "Then could you at least—"

"Stop talking."

Her face contorts in the oddest way. Caught between surprise and understanding, her eyes furiously search mine. I try ignoring her gaze, gently raising her calf and draping it over my right shoulder. But there's this silent pleading that I can't avoid. An effortless begging in her expression. "_Just say the word, Santana_," I think while meeting her stare. "_Lower your guard for just one second and we'll talk this out. Let me in._"

I wait, aimlessly trailing a finger up the inside of her thigh. Wait for the real Santana to replace the ghost that lies across our bed. No such thing occurs. Not when Santana eventually releases another hearty laugh, drops the elbows that she's been propped against, and with a twirl of her hand says, "Carry on."

Disappointed, I instinctively place an open-mouthed kiss to the lower part of her thigh. Trail my mouth across, biting and nibbling more aggressively with each. She ignores my initial order and writhes in the subtlest way. Even as I linger around the area in which she wants me most, not dancing too far away, but not coming too close. Heat radiates from her center, which reminds me of how sex used to be. More so when her hand trickles closer, slow enough as not to catch me off guard. Asking for permission, more or less. "Go ahead," I breathe.

And she does. Fingers patiently wait at my ear's outer edge, prepared to latch on as I proceed. It's a game to her, and I'm trying to equally treat it as such. Sex means nothing anymore. We're no longer making love, but simply fucking. Two people randomly hooking up. And if this is to be treated as nothing more than a game, I'm insistent on playing by my rules.

So I pause. Cease all movement, allowing proper suffering.

"Brittany," she chimes, seemingly annoyed.

"Santana," I return.

We're baiting each other. It's painfully obvious. Caught in a stand-off that each is too stubborn to move forth with. _Shoot first, but don't dare to miss_. This is the rationale I currently operate under. The only ideology that means escaping with a heart intact. Santana's too smart, though. And she knows it.

Her lower half moves forward a bit more, hand ushering my head forth. I don't resist, tongue flickering out as it has many times before. Straight at her clit, moving side to side, in round circles. Hips raise again, as do my hands to firmly force them down. Santana groans and I know that I have her.

Even as I lift a hand, plunging two fingers as deep as I can. Then a third. Mouth still in place, left hand still deterring her efforts. Though it's not long before she's dancing on the edge. She's far too predictable. An open book that only BSP can effortlessly read.

Roughly around the time that her head digs back into the mattress, body arching upward, I surge forward and furiously seek out her lips. She meets them with ease, though it's more of just panting into each other's mouths than kissing. My left arm wraps around her back, right hand thrusting forward a final time. Santana cracks underneath me, body quaking.

It takes a moment, but she eventually stills. A dumb smile creeps across her face as I lower her back down. And then we're both simply left with the lingering silence. I even avoid her motions towards returning the favor, removing the hands that settle onto my waistband.

"You must really hate me right now, huh?" she asks when we both settle back into our respective sides of the bed. I, closest to the wall, staring at the ceiling. She at the opposite edge, not daring to glance my way.

"Not quite," I answer truthfully. "What I hate is that I'll probably still love you in the morning."

Like a fool, I wait for a response that this version of Santana might produce on one of her better days. An answer that has no plans of rearing its ugly head. "_I love you, too_. _Always._" Or even more optimistically, "_Marry me, Brittany Pierce_." Not like I'd say yes or anything—because she's a complete asshole—but at least it would be affirmation enough of Santana's true state. A notion hinting at her overall okayness. That maybe, just maybe, she's the same girl I once knew.

What I get is silence. Heavy, disgruntled breathing. That is, until Santana sheepishly mutters, "The boy isn't coming back, is he?"

"Not until you do," I say all too harshly.

If the mission has been to hurt my best friend, then I've succeeded. For her previously unsettled breathing catches in the lightest way. Like a hiccup.

_This is what she needs_, I internally assure. _The truth, no matter how ugly it may be._

And the defense holds strong at first, up until she mutters again, in almost disbelief, "I've managed to fuck everything up."

"Yeah, you have." It comes off as more of a joke, and we both chuckle for the first time in ages. Together.

The brief moment is enough to destroy all resolve. Enough to make me roll over, lift Santana's arm, and nestle my head into the crook of her shoulder. I'm then tracing small circles on her protruding hip bone. Outlining the expanse between both that jut out.

_So much for being tough_.

Santana's appreciative, though. She goes as far as scooting over, leaning into me, and placing the gentlest, most chaste kiss on my forehead. It's all terribly disheartening, really. I can't even enjoy our momentary calm before yet another storm. Because we should be talking. We should be discussing the present, not reveling in ways of the past. But even as I try to speak, opening and reopening my mouth, the proper words refuse to come forth. Instead, an unintelligible string of _uhms _and _errs_ penetrates the silence.

"I miss you," I finally muster the courage to say. And this confession doesn't elicit a chuckle or groan of annoyance, but a stream of tears that dribble from her chin onto my cheek.

Neither of us mutters another word. Maybe it's because of the cold. The lack of warmth between our bodies. Maybe it's because of the dark. The sheltering silence it affords. Then again, we could both just be far too tired. Not from the past hour. Not from the past day. More so from the past couple of months, a time so draining that not even a year's worth of sleep could restore our spirits.

Eventually, the rise of Santana's stomach slows. Transforms into a methodical cadence of ups and downs. And when she begins snoring—softly at first, but steadily growing louder—I have to bite back a swell of tears. On her bad nights, enough drink knocks her out like a light. Tonight, the guttural chokes of her slumber serve as nothing but a reminder. Of everything that I've lost and will continue to lose.

It's as though the ghost that frequently haunts me has taken on new life. More gut-wrenching, though, is that I can't decide whether to welcome it with open arms or quietly allow it to wreak havoc before passing once more.

I've apparently fallen asleep, too, because the feeling of Santana rustling is what I first register. That, and the time of day. The dead of night. Early morning. Moonlight creeps through our single window as she gently lifts my head, peels my hands from her side, and maneuvers from bed. I don't budge, pretending to be sound asleep as she tugs at her jeans and clasps them shut.

Then there's the sound of zipping. It's my wallet, as Santana digs two fingers inside before refastening the leather. She folds three twenty dollar bills in half, shoving them into her left pocket. There's a moment of hesitation before she reaches back in, producing a crumpled slip of paper.

I dare to flicker my eyes open momentarily, watching as the Latina peruses the note I left in her box of letters. The words have their impact, it would seem, just as my confession from earlier, for she again wipes at her eyes. Massages the hot, salty water away. Then sniffles.

Then, as the bedroom door slowly creeks open, Santana lingers in the doorway for a fraction of a second before whispering, "Yeah, B. I miss me, too."


	5. Broken Records

**JJLives: I'm sorry that you dread these updates, lol. And I'm sorry for making you borderline cry. But I am thoroughly appreciative of your consistently kind comments. Many thanks.**

**Guest: Sad day, man. I'm sorry for your harsh vibes, and will most certainly be sending good ones your way.**

**hlnwst: And I'm always excited to hear that you'll be sticking around for yet another soul-sucking piece. Many, many thanks.**

**mels2001: And I'm a sucker for people like you who leave such warm comments, regardless of whatever bullshit I post.**

**aprilthewelder: NO, YOU CANNOT DO THIS. WERE YOU BEING SARCASTIC OR DID YOU GENUINELY MEAN IT? Lol.**

**LoneGambit: It's all for good reason, friend, and I must ask that you trust where this is going. (Totally understandable if you can't. Lol.) But I'm always genuinely excited when you come on to the review board ('input' or not, lol).**

* * *

**Author's Note: All right, guys. First and foremost, I do apologize that this update took far longer than most others. The holidays are not necessarily the best time to delve into such a gut-wrenching piece. (Yes, it pains me just as much as the next person. Lol.)**

**I was struggling, if only for a moment, to really throw myself back into their mindsets. But at some point along the way, it came to me, and the updates should follow accordingly. I have a relatively decent idea of where this will be heading, and while the angsty bullshit must continue on a bit longer, I can only hope that all of you will bear with it.**

**Forgive me should any of the inserts begin sounding redundant. There's a message that we'll eventually get to.**

**So, here's to me staying sober enough to write the next insert, and here's to the celebrating that shall follow.**

_**Disclaimer: I do not own Glee or any of the show's characters.**_

* * *

**_June- Five Months Earlier_**

We were sitting at the dinner table one evening, just as any other family might. There were sheets of tri-folded paper littered all over the wooden surface. Miniature fonts in their clear cut boxes that tallied up into something far grander. I tried to treat it like a game. Hard to have any fun, though, when this game sucks the life from your bank account.

Santana massaged her brow and reached into her pocket. Ball after ball of crumpled green paper landed in the table's center. "Stay in school, kids," she grumbled, fishing that pocket until she came up empty. "Or else you'll be fucking broke and on the verge of gay, homeless cannibalism."

I did the same. My denominations were smaller—ones and the occasional five—but our contributions came out almost equal. "Maybe you could try being nicer," I noted, staring at our too small pile. "Better tips, you know."

Santana wiped at her weary, sunken eyes. She had begun doing that more frequently. Rubbing as though the intensity had an effect on the present time. Like, if her knuckles ground into her eye sockets a second or two longer, she might wake up from an annoying dream.

I only know that because I sometimes felt that way, too.

"I can see it now," she mumbled, still rub, rub, rubbing away. "You want a lap dance to go with that meal? Throw in an extra hundred and I'm yours for the lunch break. Fifteen minutes, of course." I remained silent, not wanting to let on to just how much her comments could hurt. After all, she was exhausted. We both were. And tired people say tired things. "Sorry," she eventually offered.

"Your dad offered to help out," I foolishly mentioned.

She yawned, mouth open wide as her head moved from side to side. Santana was clearly saying no, disapproving of my suggestion, but it was in a too-tired-to-show-my-agitation way. Too tired to care, I guess. "No, no, no," she yawned. "A thousand times no."

"But—"

"But _nothing_," she groaned, expression taking on new life. It was stern. Firm, like a mother reprimanding her child. "We don't need their help, B. We don't need anyone's pity, okay?"

I could hear the pleading in her tone, so I nodded. "Yeah, I understand."

She wasn't convinced, but I wasn't trying to persuade her of anything. Convincing was no longer a necessity. Distraction was the only importance. And like clockwork, the love of my life rose from her chair, pushed it underneath the table, and placed two open palms to her face. She then mumbled, "Come on. Let's get you going before I fucking explode."

* * *

I should've expected what came later that evening. I should've sensed it, somehow. All signs pointed toward what some might now call the inevitable. The way she drove faster than usual. Santana hated when it was time that I leave for work, and often insisted on escorting me there. Like I said before, she used to hang around. Watch me from afar and serve as a protective presence. "Never can be too careful," she'd say, even long after Bruce the Bouncer assured that I, like all other dancers, would be kept safe from wandering hands.

But that night, she was in too much of a hurry. Too antsy. With hands that fidgeted against the steering wheel. A foot that tapped too forcefully against both pedals. Not to get rid of me, I was sure, but to get somewhere else.

I couldn't tell you why, but she when pulled in just outside of The Club's back door, waited for me to climb free, and made a petty excuse for leaving, I felt the need to linger around longer than usual. Under the cover of a dark patio, I watched as Santana threw our car into park. I watched as she climbed into that Vanessa character's idling vehicle. I then watched as they sped around the corner to a frequented hole-in-the-wall bar.

It shouldn't have bothered me as much as it did. She was freshly twenty-one at the time, legal to go into the venue. Free to make her own choices, good or bad. But a conversation we'd had weeks prior also should have thwarted her temptations.

The discussion took a great deal of courage on my part. There was too much emotional sanctity at stake. So I sat her down, explained my nervousness toward her nights on the town, and stated my preference. "Please don't," as it went. I failed to mention that it freaked me out to no end, the slightest notion that she could venture down such the path that I was insinuating. The path I'd once regretfully ventured down. One trip becomes two, two becomes four, and before you know it, your picture is on a wall for chugging twelve shots of liquor whilst reclined back in a barber's chair.

She understood. Or at least she hinted at understanding, because there was painful recognition in her eyes. The same kind that filled her very being every time Susan's name was mentioned.

Spying from the patio, I felt deflated, watching her sneak away. Again, I'll say—it had nothing to do with Vanessa. She was the coveted distraction. An interim BSP while the real me was elsewhere. No, the "who" did not compare to the "what".

As I stood on the back landing that night, peering out across the way, what resonated within me was the sensation that we were back at square one. Walking on egg shells around each other, keeping secrets. Too afraid of expressing our concerns. Too fearful of the unwanted emotions they might warrant.

The faceless turmoil. The questions. The answers we'd made a habit of avoiding.

At that point, I was simply too tired of worrying. Too anguished from working long hours, only to find that Santana had yet to return home. Too worn out from doing laundry that reeked of cheap liquor and stale cigarettes.

I could physically feel it. The pain of knowing. The ache that settles into your bones when you know the answer to a question that's so far beyond being asked, it's more of fact than anything.

Santana was drifting away. Slowly, steadily, and quietly. She was keeping things well out of my reach.

We were children again, racing downhill as children did, soaking in the wind as it blew through our air. We were floating on a cloud of ill-tempered fate, and just as soon as we dared to extend our arms outward, fully trusting that time and circumstance would not betray us, we'd catch that single rut in the road.

And just as soon as that minor bump rippled underneath us, we were sure to come crashing down.

* * *

_**August- Three Months Earlier**_

We were supposed to go to her parents' the night everything went awry. Earlier that day, after skimming over another month's worth of bills that needed paying—bills that we couldn't afford—I said, "I'm going to ask your father for help."

"No, you're not," she quickly snapped, digging through our topmost drawer. She sighed in discontent, slammed it shut, and opened the next.

"Santana, you no longer have a job."

She huffed again. Most likely because I brought up the one thing that we weren't supposed to. She made _that _explicitly clear. But I saw no reason for her embarrassment. Businesses downsized all the time. People were laid off _all the time._ "I'm well aware," she breathed.

"Then why won't—"

"I'll figure it out, B," she grunted. "Just give me some time to sort my thoughts."

But time was not on our side. It had begun to prove a fleeting concept. Santana wasn't attending her meetings, because time insisted that she spend her waking moments elsewhere. With Eddie. Looking for other employment. I couldn't hang around the apartment and offer her proper aid in the search because time demanded that I tend to more pressing matters.

Santana chose to spend a great deal of time out that night. We agreed to reconvene at six and head over to the Lopez's. But seven and eight rolled around without so much as a phone call from her. Then ten and eleven. Thankfully, I had the foresight to rush Eddie over to Carey's a little before midnight. Because finally, just shy of one in the morning, there was a racket outside our front door. I dared to poke my head out, and soaked in the sight of Vanessa supporting Santana's dead weight over her shoulder.

My best friend perked up almost instantly. Her arms flung out, catching the outer portions of my neck. Santana had grown heavy, and I stumbled under her weight. "What in the hell happened?" I asked no one in particular.

Vanessa, with glazed eyes, playfully shrugged. "She was freaking out, so I gave her something to calm the nerves." I could've decked that girl square in the fucking jaw had Santana not been violently shivering against me.

Instead, I snarled, "Go back to wherever you came from, and stay the _hell_ away from here."

It took an act of Congress to get Santana inside. She spent the better part of ten minutes tip-toeing into the apartment and then dancing out. She was skittish, eyes suspiciously darting from side to side. They'd narrow in on a point on the wall, soften, and refocus with growing paranoia. She epitomized the polar opposite of "calm".

When enough time passed and an entire swarm of critters had flown in through the open door, I bear hugged her into submission and dragged my best friend's hunkered frame into our home.

Just as soon as her feet hit the carpet, Santana sprinted into our bedroom and dove into bed. I followed apprehensively, settling down on the mattress's edge. Staring at a concealed lump once more. The cover rose and fell as it always did. But every couple of inhales, her breath would hitch in such a way that mine did the same.

"Make it go away, B," she eventually mumbled.

I peeled the sheet back, revealing one very petrified Latina. "Make what go away?"

"_It_," she pleaded, brow knit inward and sounding as though she might cry. "It's stuck up there."

"Stuck _where_?"

A finger tapped fervently at her left temple. _Great, _I thought. _Santana's really gone off the deep end._

Had she, though? She'd always been a puzzle, saying or doing rather cryptic things. Things that made me ask important questions or reevaluate specific scenarios. Being mysterious wasn't a bad thing. Being troubled wasn't, either.

Then why was I still sitting there, keeping a very particular set of morals at bay, desperately trying to convince myself that Santana's shortcomings didn't make her a bad person?

I did what I could then. The only thing that made perfect sense. I pulled the bed cover taut and draped it over the girl I loved. The girl whose pain I needed to make disappear. "Just stay underneath here," I said. "You'll be safe."

It was something she'd done for me when we were little. A sincerity she'd extended my way even as we aged. Mostly, though, it was a selfish act, for I didn't want her to see the tears that quietly streamed from my eyes. It felt like I was standing on the Moon, watching as the Earth shattered into a million little pieces. Leading up to that moment, we'd never been more distant. More separated of mind and spirit. Santana and I weren't only on different pages; we weren't even reading from the same book.

When I sniffled, Santana poked her head from under the thin sheet, eyes squinting against the light of our bedside lamp. She appeared sober, if only for the moment, when she placed a hand to my forearm and cracked a smile. "No need to fret. We're still going to be okay, B," she cooed with genuine belief. "Wouldn't you say so?"

It took years for me to shake the lump from my throat. "Yeah, Santana. I believe we are," I answered, ignoring what would prompt her assurance.

I was lying, of course, just as she had done before. That was more of an affirmation that anything. Our staple. The mortar that held each brick of our beings together. Because so long as either of us was being dishonest, then we were being secretive for protection's sake.

And that meant that we were doing just fine.

* * *

_**Present Time**_

"Grab my tits," I say to the middle-aged man that rests just underneath my hips. He's roughly forty or so, with slightly graying hair and a black, collared shirt that only someone fifteen years his junior could sport.

His wide-eyed look of astonishment suggests that he just might cop a feel, but an insistent shake of his head says otherwise. "No thanks, Miss," he protests. "The sign clearly says—"

"To hell with the sign," I growl, taking firm hold of his wrists and placing them to my chest.

But it has been a blue moon kind of evening, one where Santana crept inside under the front neon sign a couple of hours back. She's looked my way a few times, but mostly focuses on the small group that surrounds her.

This hasn't been for his personal gratification, of course, for sand papery, calloused fingers squeezing at my breasts isn't exactly the staple of a good night. It's been more of a test for Santana, who sits across the way, knuckles turning a pale shade of white against the dimly lit room. I've been trying to convince myself that she still cares enough to grow angry, and this small response has been proof enough.

She motions to one of the servers, who motions to one of the night managers, who then motions to me. I brace for reprimand, but he simply mutters, "Room four. Half hour."

When I eventually enter the room—more of a luxury cubicle, if anything—Santana is teetering against a leather couch. A dumb smile creeps across her face upon recognizing my entrance. "You smell like a brewery," I point out.

"And you look like a brothel," she quickly returns, smile being replaced by a scowl.

I disregard what little validity her statement holds on account of its intention. Even with me, the one person she can be most open with, sarcasm and bitterness are her only defenses. "Did you arrange this meeting just to insult me?" I challenge, ashamed yet grateful for our first interaction in days.

Her wandering hands insist otherwise as they latch onto my hips and pull me down. "Not really," she hums when I'm settled onto her lap. A brief, tense moment passes while her eyes bear into mine. "You've been avoiding me."

It's true. Ever since our alone time in the bedroom, I haven't been able to properly function around her. Ever since the "I miss you" and "I miss me, too" bullshit. Granted, she can see right through the façade. So I have to take on an active defense of my own. And I do, removing her hands and trying but simultaneously failing to stand. "I'm not dancing for you, Santana," I say in one breath. "And I'm not fucking you, either, if that's what you're getting at."

Her face contorts. "Who's insulting who, now?"

Within a split second, her fingers trail along the underside of my jaw, and her mouth meets mine. I try resisting, but can't. Not when small moments like these prove the most electric. The kind that an old BSP and Santana might share. I hate her for it, even as her mouth begins working against the lengthier part of my neck.

"I have to go back out there," I eventually muster, breath hitching. She continues, though, lips placing open-mouthed kisses against my flesh. Biting and sucking with enough fervor to undoubtedly leave marks. "_Santana_."

She leans back at my last protest, scowl quickly reforming. Then, after scoffing to herself, Santana mutters, "Of course."

"Don't do that," I plead, feeling an odd sense of longing overtake all other rationale. A sensation of neediness that makes me want to throw up. "Talk to me, will you? Tell me what's going on."

It's fractured conversation, at best.

Her eyes sink into themselves. The windows that I once vividly gazed through are drawn shut. "You have to get back out there."

I do, only because Santana damn near jumps up from the couch after that. In fact, she practically tosses me aside, matching the insistence with long-stridden steps. At the booth, she downs the rest of her drink. One of the servers then approaches, but instead of returning the now empty glass, Santana uses all of her brunt force to smash it against the underlying table, sending clear shards in all directions.

Neither of us sticks around long enough to see what comes next.

* * *

I call Carey for a ride just after the dust settles and the tip shares are dispersed. I'm sorting through a slew of one dollar bills, transferring various wads into separate jean pockets—each designated to different budgets—when she pulls up, appearing groggy as ever.

"I don't see why you leave _her_ with the car when _she _does nothing to help out," she complains en route to Lima Heights.

"Because _her_ father bought it," I point out for the umpteenth time.

There's a loud huff before she absent-mindedly begins digging through the middle console. I take hold of vacant steering wheel, having decided that wrecking is not on BSP's most recent agenda. At least, not this evening's. "Well, that's one piggy bank you might want to consider cracking back open," Carey grunts, extending a tri-folded sheet of paper my way.

In my years of living, I've become increasingly convinced that the boldest, most impacting statements are made via three-word combinations. _"I love you." "I hate you." "You have cancer."_ Those kinds. The same kind that Susan delivered when I was much younger and just becoming acclimated to nights spent in a hospital room. Back when my father was slipping away from this world. All it took was, "Your daddy's gone."

By now, you'd think that I'd be more accustomed to such surprises. After all, Santana and I have been on nothing short of a roller coaster when it comes to sudden occurrences. But when the three words first stare back at me, it takes every fiber of my being to suppress the urge to vomit all over Carey's dashboard. It takes every ounce of resolve to swallow the painful, gut-wrenching memories that are tacked on.

_Notice of Eviction_.

"I swung by earlier to see if you were home. Door was locked and that was nudged in."

_Don't cry, Brittany_, is all I can think. _Do not fucking cry. Figure out the problem and solve it._ "This doesn't make any sense," is what I mutter.

We turn. "Nothing does, it would seem."

"No," I insist, shaking my head to ride myself of a carnal stupor. "This can't be right. We've paid _every_ month. I made sure of it. Hell, I even sent Santana with it just to make sure that the money was kept safe."

"Looks like you were worried about the wrong people ripping you off," Carey notes.

I'm shaking my head again. "She wouldn't do that."

"Wouldn't she, though?"

I don't answer, but instinctively grab my phone, ready to call Santana and sort this mess. Clear her name of all misconceptions. There's a voicemail waiting instead, and for a fraction of a second, I'm hopeful to believe it's her.

"_Umm, hi, Miss Pierce or Miss Lopez? Missus Renwald speaking." _Eddie's counselor at school. _"I'm sorry to be phoning at such an hour, but there are some matters that we need to discuss regarding your, uhh, Eddie. Give me a call back when you can."_

And when it rains, it fucking pours.

I begin laughing uncontrollably. Maybe it's to shadow the hot, salty streams of water that barrel down my face at a snail's pace. Maybe it's to suppress the twinge of pain that ripples through my skull when my head thuds onto the chair with just a bit too much force. Or maybe it's because of my chest and the way that it threatens to explode within my body.

Carey doesn't say anything as she pulls in front of her building. She remains apologetically noiseless even as we walk inside and I plop down onto her couch. "Got anything to drink?" I ask, which is quickly met with the opening of her refrigerator door and a frozen over bottle of wine.

It's not for consumption, of course. Instead, the long-necked cylinder acts as a stand-in Santana that sits to my right, while a pillow acts as interim Eddie to my left. Thankfully, Carey clicks the television on before wandering off to bed.

Late night reruns. Our favorite. "Is this the one with the cop and the horse?" I ask the wine bottle through another fit of laughter.

"It's _clearly _the one with the spy and the giraffe," the pillow deadpans.

I jolt backward, giving the object a nudge. "Don't interrupt," I say, tossing it across the room. "You can't talk, anyway. You're too busy being our, _uhh_, Eddie." The three of us have a good chuckle over that one.

This ritual continues for hours on end, well past the sun's rising. I'm too delirious with sleep. Too haunted by a night filled with silence and the flickering light of a noiseless television in the background.

Eventually, Carey wanders back into the living room, catching me in a heated conversation over the ethics of animal involvement in the pornography industry. "Cats are the exception," I insist to the wine bottle.

"_Cats are not the exception_."

"Lord Tubbington was in ours."

"_That's gross_," the newly recovered pillow admonishes.

"_He wasn't actively there_," the wine bottle argues.

"Because you said it was a two-person gig," I chime. "'Three's a crowd', to be precise."

Only now am I fully aware of the spectacle as Carey clears her throat. Her eyebrows are narrowed inward, a crease forming in the middle of her forehead. "You're officially off of your fucking rocker," she says, to which I seek out the defense of my inanimate counterparts. They provide no assistance.

There's an awkward pause. I spend the thirty second interval smoothing over the pillow's fabric and readjusting the bottle's cap. My expression must reek of desolation, for the only other living being in this scenario joins me on the couch, cutting her eyes to the television. I lean back as she asks, "No sound?"

"We were making it up as we went along."

She nods, nervously glancing at both of my sides. Another pause. I take the moment to absorb just how unforgiving the incoming sunlight can be. How it illuminates every particle of dust known to man that floats just in front of the window. "It's okay to be upset, Brittany," she grunts. "Hell, if I were you—"

"Good thing you're not," I spit rather defensively.

She nods again, and I take it as my cue for leaving. So I muster the strength to unwind my crossed legs, peel myself away, and groggily stumble towards the door. "Where are you going?" a voice calls out after.

"Home," I say, feeling my voice catch, despite the most recent enjoyable evening that I spent with Eddie and Santana part two. "To the home that I share with Santana and Eddie, the two people I adore most, and the ones that'll be eagerly awaiting my return."

"_Brittany_," is the last thing I hear before the door slams shut.

Carey was right, though. Our door is dead bolted shut, and each of the three keys in my possession prove of no use. And considering that there isn't much else to do on a Thursday morning, I slink to the ground, feeling the weight of the world fall with me.

How do people move on in times of strife? Like, how do soldiers keep pressing forward, even when death is most imminent? How do pilots keep their hands glued to the wheel when their plane is barreling to the ground? How is does anyone keep chugging along when they've lost their lover, their child, their home, _and _their peace of mind?

How?

_They just do._

I allow a smile, just because these are the moments that my father would revel in. His times to shine. And I would listen with the utmost intent. I _am_ listening.

"Get your shit together, kid," I mutter, reaching into a pocket for my cellphone. There are but a few calls that need be made if my life is to be restored.

The first goes to our landlord, who says that we're at least six months overdue on the apartment's rent. The second, to Eddie's counselor. She insists that he's fallen behind on assignments in just about every class. The third is most difficult, considering that Santana has made it explicitly clear, time and time again, that this is a last resort.

Our neighbor that steps over me on the staircase while brandishing the nastiest of looks is reason enough in BSP's book.

It rings three times before anyone answers. "Eddie, please."

"_What_?" a tiny voice growls.

"Your teacher called," I say.

"_And?_"

"And she said that you're falling behind_,_" I continue. "That you've quit trying_._"

"_Your point being?_"

I take a deep breath, not having previously accounted for just how difficult this conversation would be. Santana's easier to deal with. She eventually cowers. But this boy's got too much bitterness, too much malice, fueling his words. And for good reason, I would assume. "You have to put forth an effort, Eddie," I feebly offer.

He laughs into the receiver. Now I can hear Santana's sarcasm behind it. "_Funny,_" he breathes. "_You know, how you're so insistent that I keep trying when everyone else has clearly quit doing so._"

"That's not fair."

"_Yeah, well, a lot of things aren't._"

I sigh as audibly as possibly, vying for the best effect that our current detachment can offer. "Put Dr. Lopez on, please_._"

"_Brittany_," he breathes. "_What's the issue?_"

"A lot," I admit, feeling my voice come unhinged. "But I, uhh—I need your help with something."

The older man grunts, and I can practically feel his head nodding from afar. He knows what's coming. It's been a long time doing so. "_You remember our agreement,_" he says.

It's such a matter-of-fact statement. Of course I _remember_. Kind of hard to forget. But I vividly recall _not _agreeing, and so I make a point of once again declining with, _"_I'm not sending her away_._"

"_Brittany._"

"No_._"

A moment passes in our over-the-phone standoff before Dr. Lopez mutters, "_Then there's nothing that I can assist you with_." And then there's a quick _click_ before I can sneak in another word.

* * *

You're probably wondering why I would do this. Why I would stand so valiantly beside my faith in Santana. Why I would stick around when she's so clearly intent on doing the opposite. When she's always been that way.

I often ask myself the same. _Are you a flightless bird, Brittany Pierce? There is no anchor weighing you down. Take Eddie and run off to Australia. Go. Just fucking go._

But planes stay grounded when storms are about. Ships remain docked in their harbors when the waters are rough. All for good reason. You may not believe this, but I was once Santana's reason for sticking around. I was good enough to be that reason.

I don't expect you to understand this. Most of the time I don't.

But there's something to be said for fighting, right? For charging the mountain even when your legs are too weary to take another step? For sticking with the people who carried us through our worst?

The people who say that she can't make it free from this storm, they don't know what it feels like to continuously fall in love with their most detested enemy. When their love and hatred grind to a halt, forced to stare into the other's eyes. Nobody understands this feeling that aches my bones.

It reminds me of the other day in my Literature class, when the professor asked that we analyze a quote from the reading. _Can you hate someone for what they have done, but still love them for whom they had been?_ it read.

I couldn't move in that moment. My mind came to a dumbfounded standstill. All thoughts that once raced came to a shrieking stop. I knew the answer, and yet, I didn't have the gall to make it known.

At least, not until now, as I sit on the doorstep of a home we once shared.

No, it's not possible. Quite the opposite, actually. But when that someone is Santana, and you're one Brittany Susan Pierce, well…you find a way to love them. Despite all logic and rational thinking, you fight like hell to love them.

Even when they're becoming less of a captain willing to go down with their ship, and being transforming into more of a disgruntled crew member insistent on sinking the vessel. Even when the only common factor is that, despite all initial motives, everyone else is subjected to the mayhem that ensues.

Even when their name is so tightly intertwined with the terms: mayhem, destruction, and chaos.

Even when you're but one of a few innocent bystanders, deemed with the daunting task of making sense of the mess.

So, if you're still wondering, just know that this is because I care.

Because she's a mess, but she's always been _my _mess. The mess that I've caused.

This is because she's lost, and I'd go to the ends of this earth to find her.

This is because I, Brittany Pierce, am custom fit for loving Santana.

Because if anyone else were to try and do so, then she'd end up breaking.

And if that were to ever happen, she'd been broken for good, and there'd be nothing that I could do to fix her.


	6. New Faces and Old Places

**Lanter: It hurt to write, if that's any consolation. This and the last piece did. Lol. Light will be shed soon enough, and verdicts will be reached. I thank you for taking the time to read and review.**

**JJLives: I'm sorry that you cried this time. (But not really.) Santana will reach her ends in enough time, and as always, I thank you for your kind words.**

**pictureofsuccess: Wow, man. Words cannot accurately portray the immense weirdness (a good one, I promise) that your words have made me feel. And I'm deeply humbled that you would accredit this piece in such a manner. It's a joy writing for people such as yourself, and I sure as hell hope not to disappoint.**

**mels2001: Well, I'm most certainly sorry that it's sometimes hard to follow. Feel free to ask any questions should you ever be confused. But I am deeply grateful that you would opt to stick around, regardless. Many, many thanks.**

**4evamuzic: I thank you for such kind and insightful words. I truly do. Australia might still be in the picture, lol.**

**insertnameherex: Ah, dear friend, you spoil me. I will continue in trying to make you "feel", lol. I most certainly will. (Check your inbox. I've left something.)**

**StephaniieC: Glad to have you and your funny comments back. I will explain Santana's rationale in time enough, I promise. Until next time, and a most happy new year.**

* * *

_**A**_**uthor's Note: ****Firstly, I am deeply humbled by those of you who stick around. I know that this story is a mouthful and often hard to swallow, but I promise, there is light at the end of this tunnel. A very long one, indeed, but bearable. **

**Secondly, it kind of stuck out to me how domesticated this piece has been. Similar to the last, I've been striving to show that even the simplest stories are worth telling. All for you guys, of course, because if I dared to read my own work for longer than necessary, I'd be tempted to punch myself in the face. And while I've spent a great deal of time probing Brittany's mind, light will soon be shed on Santana's rationale, as well.**

**Lastly, this insert was written in the comfort of a hospital waiting room, where I anxiously awaited the birth of my first niece. Forgive any and all discrepancies, though I'm particularly fond of this chapter. Forgive me for the lengthier waits in between. Work and school and life somehow manage to delay these things. (In the best way possible, of course.)**

**_Disclaimer: I do not own Glee or any of the show's characters._ **

* * *

_**October- One Month Earlier**_

It was a late night, one filled with long work hours and the desire for a comfortable bed, when Eddie passed me the phone. We had only just stepped foot into the apartment, and I was intent on stripping from my grimy clothes as quickly as possible.

_"Brittany Pierce? Officer Reynolds speaking. You're needed at our downtown station." _I hung up before he could finish speaking. Every ounce of my being thought it was merely a cruel joke. Possibly something Santana had put one of her friends up to. A prank to get me riled up, only for her to come trouncing through our front door minutes later.

That never happened.

Instead, I settled Eddie into his room, double-checked the apartment's locks, and made the difficult journey to downtown Lima. As the time should've had it, Santana was busy cackling to herself when I first stepped foot into the police station. She wasn't fearful or anxious, but sat behind the Plexiglas barrier, doubled over at a constant string of muffled words that Vanessa was muttering.

Needless to say, she wasn't very excited to see me.

"You said that you'd be with Puck," I argued just as soon as the holding room's door clicked unlock. "You said that you'd be with Puck and Mike and that you _wouldn't_ get into trouble."

"And I was," she laughed. "For the first hour, at least."

There was no stench of alcohol on her breath that night. Her speech did not seem impaired. But I knew her character to be out of the ordinary. After all, this was the girl that cringed whenever we drove past a parked police car. The girl that still feverishly massaged her wrists as the mere mention of people being whisked off to jail. This wasn't Santana. "So you lied," I then challenged, but her attention was elsewhere.

"No, B," she eventually cooed after multiple taps to the shoulder. "I just withheld certain truths. It's different."

"Do explain," I snarled, but a man in blue suit was too busy interrupting. He was shoving paperwork in my face, demanding my signature on _this line, that line, _and_ no, that line_. My bank card was just as quickly hassled. Swiped not once, but twice, considering that Santana damn near tore my head off at the idea of leaving Vanessa behind.

I kept shaking my head, only to have Santana nod hers with more verve. "We have to give her a ride back, too," she insisted.

"If this keeps up, we won't have a car to ride in, ourselves," I spat. But Santana did nothing more than cut her eyes back, looking like some sort of disgruntled puppy dog. Considering the time and my utter lack of sleep, I caved. "Better call your parents," I grunted, signaling to where the other girl sat. "Looks like we'll be living with them before too long."

* * *

"Do you have family, Vanessa?" I asked en route to the shady neighborhood she called home. Santana wanted to tag along, but I insisted that she go home. "Are there people that you care about? Worry for?"

She huffed, slumped back into the seat, and dumbly replied, "I guess."

"And what would you do if, say, they spent their free time with leeches?" I continued, malice fueling each word. "Poisonous people that get them into trouble and threaten their wellbeing?"

Vanessa began laughing hysterically. It started somewhere deep within her gut and built up, only to come out in boisterous fashion. "Sanny was right," she breathed after another fit, rolling down the window and lighting a cigarette. "You're a total soccer mom."

_Sanny? _It was quite possibly the dumbest nickname I'd ever heard. But a lack of creativity did nothing to soothe the achy sensation her supposed knowledge sent over me. Santana had been speaking of me. In ill-fashion, for that matter, considering that she and Eddie frequently referred to uptight, anal retentive people by the same title. "I'm responsible. There's a difference," I said in an all too soccer mom-ish way.

"Whatever gets you to sleep at night," she chimed, taking a drag from her cigarette. "But I find it absolutely hilarious that someone such as yourself is attempting to lecture others on good choices." She took another long drag, smoke filling the vehicle's cabin, and flicked the butt out. "To answer your question, though, I'd say that it depends. Does it really matter who they're running around with, just so long as that person _actually _gives them the time of day?"

It was the final straw, as if there really was one. As if taking _my _best friend out for another night on the town, only to get picked up for being a public nuisance, didn't anger me enough. She was questioning my devotion to Santana. Challenging my position as a lover and a partner. Frankly, the bitch was speaking on matters that did not concern her. Issues that she knew absolutely nothing about.

I pulled over to the nearest curb, grinding to an almost instant halt. "Out," was all that I said. Heat was quickly filling every ounce of my body, and I was liable to get myself arrested, too, should she have stuck around a second longer.

The other blonde cocked a devious eyebrow at me before shrugging. She quickly stepped out, leaving the door wide-open while she soaked in the surroundings. It was a pretty well-lit area, and she would be safe. Well, she would be safe just as long as I could resist the urge to turn around and run smack dab over her ass.

The passenger door was eventually closed, only to be followed by the girl's hunkering frame. She leaned in the open window, stared at me for the better part of ten seconds, and cracked a devilish grin. "Former drunkie turned stripper turned defender of the little people?" the girl said. "Santana's caught herself a _real_ winner."

Vanessa could've said more. She could've relayed more incriminating information that would have had to come from Santana's mouth specifically. From my confidante's arsenal of secrets. I was convinced that she would, in fact.

But in a flash, she merely winked, tapped twice on the window's pane, and twirled, blonde hair marching off into the night.

* * *

It felt like being hit by a train.

I shouldn't have been as angry as I was, but something about that girl set me off like no other. Her smugness provoked a temper that I was utterly unaware of. It was petty, allowing myself to get so worked up. I'd managed to avoid that kind of drama in high school, a place where those feelings were supposed to be laid to rest.

There was something about her, though. Something about her stupid leather jacket, her stupid black-painted nails, and her stupid lean-to-the-left way of walking. That girl was a snake. Hell, even her name resembled the creature. And that hissing sound followed me all the way back to Lima Heights. It hung over my shoulder as I climbed the stairs to our apartment. It mocked me as I stepped through our door.

I poked my head into Eddie's room, hoping that his presence would somehow calm the rage that coursed throughout my body. That rattled my bones. "How was school?" I asked shortly after flipping the light switch, pulling him from a seemingly deep slumber.

"Uneventful," he groaned from under the cover of a thin bed sheet.

"Homework?"

"Done."

"Dinner?"

He leaned up, tilting his head to the side like he always did when I rambled on for too long. "We're out of milk."

_Cereal. Lucky Charms. Right._

I craned my neck through the doorway, glancing just down the hall to where Santana's and my bedroom door was drawn shut. "Status report?"

Eddie huffed this time, an air of weariness plaguing the simple gesture. He sounded ten years older. "The baby ate four tortillas, tried climbing into _my _bed, punched a hole in the wall when she couldn't unmute the vacuum, and eventually passed out on the bathroom floor."

"Dick on the face?" I jokingly asked, referring to our system of properly gauging Santana's level of intoxication. Some nights, she wouldn't even reach Sharpie-to-the-skin status. Others, she could've easily been painted blue and dumped into a river.

Thankfully, he laughed just before saying, "The entire boy's locker room."

At that point, I could do nothing to hide my disappointment. The evening had taken its toll. My body ached. My spirit was all but present. My heart beat in an off-kilter kind of way. Eddie must have realized this, because moments after I flashed a painfully forced smile, he returned with a genuine toothy grin. "I love you, you know that?" he playfully cooed. "And I wouldn't trade being here for the world."

It eased my aching heart, if only for the moment. "For nothing at all?"

"Well, I could _possibly_ be persuaded with a new pillow," he said, giggling.

I quickly marched into our room and snatched the very one from underneath Santana's head, tossing it through the boy's doorway. She was still groaning when I finally crawled into bed. But the grunting soon subsided as her arm snaked around my waist and her head settled in behind mine.

"You didn't spare any details in telling Vanessa all about me," I muttered just over my shoulder.

"You're my favorite person to talk about," she groggily mumbled, breath tickling my ear.

It wasn't enough, though. Tonight had been clear indication that our lines of communication were long past severed. We were slowly reverting back to our old ways, and if the past served as any indication, chaos would surely follow. So I returned with, "Rumor has it that I'm not so bad to talk _to_, either."

Her breathing picked up, and I could tell that she was not only becoming upset, but that she was fully awake. Probably not fully coherent, but wide-eyed and at the ready. "Grown up things are boring, B," she said, sounding not completely confrontational. "Bills, money, food, money. 'We can't afford this. You shouldn't be doing that.' _Bleh_. To every last bit of it."

I couldn't help but giggle at how uncomfortable she sounded. "Don't worry about that stuff," I said, leaning back into her, smushing her fragile body with mine. "Just tell me what's running through that pretty head of yours."

"You, my dear," she playfully grunted from under my weight.

Part of me wanted to accept the flattery and lay things to rest. Right then and there. But another part, the more realistic one, believed otherwise. It simply could not shake the feeling that Santana was burying something much deeper. Locking it away within herself, well out of my reach.

Why the need for constant intoxication? And the deal with "grown up" matters? Why brush them under the rug? It was the life we had chosen—together—so why the need to refute its intricacies?

I knew that the next morning would be one of aspirin, vomiting, and the need for a hearty discussion. A call to her parole officer. An argument, most likely. I also knew that Santana would fight like hell to avoid each and every last bit.

Still, though, one question would stand out against all others, and would undoubtedly be the one without answer. It would taunt me just as Vanessa had. It would haunt me, the not knowing, and I would lose a great deal of sleep over one measly question.

Why?

* * *

_**Present Time**_

Dr. Lopez sloshes the ice around in his glass before folding both hands atop the diner's table. We're positioned in the room's back, well out of earshot. "I'm not sending her away," I explain for the umpteenth time. "I can't. It would absolutely destroy her."

"More than she's already destroyed herself?" he challenges. I wait, simply because the way his brow knits inward commands that I do so. It reads of disappointment. It tells a story well beyond words. "Listen, Brittany," the doctor huffs, bushy eyebrow now cocking upward. "Maribel and I are both well aware of your… _issue_ geared toward being alone. We know it's something of a sore subject. Which is also why we're proposing a tradeoff of sorts. Eddie will be returned to your care, if, and only if, you agree to Santana seeking help."

This is a conversational horse that's been beaten to death, resurrected, and beaten at least another twelve times over. They believe that a high dollar rehabilitation "resort" is the only standing option. They've obviously been pumping themselves full of television shows that reek of success and second chances, for the act of sending their daughter, their only child, halfway across the state holds no emotional bearing. It's as if she's a teenager again, and this is merely a summer getaway.

They act as though Santana isn't a key component in another household. Half of the foundation upon which two other lives are built. Which is probably why I bitterly suggest, "Who knew it was that easy?" The words dribble down like a mouthful of water that's yet to be swallowed. "Trading loved ones around like baseball cards? And they said compromise was a _bad _thing."

"I get it. You're upset—"

"No, Doctor Lopez, I'm not," I almost laugh. Finding amusement has become my only means of preventing an onslaught of tears. It's my only means of keeping sane, these days. "Being upset means that matters will soon resolve themselves. You get upset when your favorite character dies, or when the supermarket sells out of your favorite ice cream. This, though? This is something far worse," I confess, trying to suppress the lump that latches itself onto the back of my throat. "I'm hurting, okay? I'm confused and saddened and on the verge of a mental breakdown, but I am not _upset_."

A brief hint of understanding flashes before his eyes. There's but a moment where I feel as though Dr. Lopez and I are somewhere on the same playing field. That we're both fighting the same battle. "An intervention, then," he proposes rather matter-of-factly. "We'll sit her down, convey individual concerns, and allow Santana the choice. That way, no one's pride is at stake."

He's talking about Santana's, of course. Because pride is no longer a factor in BSP's life. Girls with self-pride do not tend to bumbling, drunken idiots, no matter how in love they believe themselves to be. People whose egos hold significant weight in everyday choices do not _choose_ the life I lead.

No, my best friend and the girl that I would've once walked through fire for possesses pride. And with her fragile spirit in mind, I say, "She'll never agree to it."

"Make her," he says. "Trick her, for all I care. Invite her for a special outing and detour back towards the apartment. We'll be waiting."

Funny, how simple everything sounds in the comfort of planning. How easily doing wrong by others can be justified. "And if I can't do that?" I ask, though it's more of my conscious than anything. "If I can't lie?"

_"If you can't do something as effortless as tell a white lie, then I can no longer assist in paying off your debt. I can no longer put you up in the home that you have some odd attachment to." _It's a very Santana-like response, and that's why I expect it now.

But Dr. Lopez does no such thing. He isn't nearly as heartless. Instead, he carefully massages the bridge of his nose, flexing and un-flexing the hand not in use. A moment passes before the man perks up, clapping both palms together. He then meets my eye a final time and says, "If I've come to know you over the years, dear child, then I know that this task will prove easiest of all."

* * *

The entire ordeal leaves a bad taste in my mouth. The kind that intentional betrayal does. I've been down this road before, and I swore to never again travel it. But Dr. Lopez has given me an ultimatum. He's leveraging Eddie and the retrieval of our home in such a manner that I almost have no say in the matter. He's taken a cheap shot, challenging my present character based off of past happenings.

And me? I'm merely a dog being slowly inched into a corner, disoriented and feverishly seeking out daylight.

Even if I could swindle Santana into a meeting—one dedicated to pointing out a major flaw in her character, nonetheless—she would despise me for doing so. And if there's one thing that I cannot handle more than sending Santana off to live with crack heads and junkies, it's having her hate me.

Since when did adulthood become so difficult?

The decision comes to me in the spur of the moment, much later the next evening. It's evident that Santana will be spending the night in, and normally, I'd be ecstatic. Under usual circumstances, I might try and sneak in a movie or attempt humane conversation. And that would be regardless of whether or not she polished off an entire bottle of wine.

Tonight, though, I cannot shake the gut-wrenching sensation that washes over me. Preemptive guilt. Especially with the card I've decided to play. "I need to ask a favor of you," I muster the courage to say as she tends to a stovetop dish.

"This ought to be good," she mumbles under her breath, sipping from a clear glass tumbler, clicking the cubes of ice with a twirl of her wrist.

I take a deep breath. _Just do it, Brittany. Get it over with. Self-loathing can happen later. _"Go with me to see Dad tomorrow," I offer. "I mean, I would go alone, but—"

"But the cemetery freaks you out and you swear that Lord Tubbington's ghost follows you around, purring sweet nothings into your ear," she finishes, sounding annoyed. "Or was that last month's excuse?"

She must see how deflated I am, and I pray that Santana cannot read me deeply enough to witness the inner war that rages on. Whatever the case may be, though, her eyes soften. Her entire demeanor relaxes as she, through stiff lips, says, "Tomorrow, fine. I'll be here." It's the last I hear before she marches off, the sound of our bedroom door slamming shut only to follow.

* * *

I can hardly make it through my morning classes without jittering off somewhere into space. Both hands literally shake as though they will lift me into the air and carry me away on a Santana-sized cloud of shame.

But BSP has taken many hits in her lifetime, and she's stood up after each. In the same manner, I shall prevail tonight, at seven o'clock, in our apartment's living room.

Avoiding the inevitable would be far easier if my English professor, a middle-aged woman with already graying hair, didn't stop me shortly after this morning's class. She motions my way with a taut finger, extending it outward only to pull it back in. I cringe at the conversation that will undoubtedly follow. A reprimand for academic shortcomings as of late.

When the room is cleared of all others, she neatly stacks a pile of papers, muttering just over her shoulder, "You haven't turned in any of the past four assignments." I hang my head when Professor Atkins turns around, not daring to make eye contact. "I just wanted to make sure that all was well on your end."

Well, that was unexpected. "Do I get bonus points for complete honesty?" I jokingly ask, to which she shrugs and takes a seat atop her wooden desk. Her lax nature is comforting, and most likely the reason that I opt for trusting the woman, if only by means of roundabout detail. "I've been asked to send someone I love dearly away," I admit, "and it's a bit of a struggle, doing so. I'm torn at the moment."

"Between?"

_Between humiliating Santana and doing what's best for her. Between restoring my physical home and destroying my emotional one. _"What I wish to be true and what I know is right," I eventually offer.

She laughs heartily, bending over to aid in crossing her legs. "Ah, the hero's dilemma," Professor Atkins practically singsongs. "Good versus evil. Right versus wrong. Not necessarily black and white, but more so dominated by the unforgiving gray area."

"More a shade of tan, if anything," I say, chuckling.

"Of course," she agrees, allowing but a moment for the words to linger. Her head nods as she gently rocks back and forth. The woman's always been a bit eccentric, making off-handed remarks at the most uncalled for moments during a lecture. But this is left field behavior, even for her. I would accredit it to her most recent Grateful Dead binge if she didn't immediately say, "Then allow me the devil's advocate. Say you veer in your heart's direction; what happens after?"

It sounds eerily similar to Santana's once frequented question of what came next. Back then, it filled me with hope, only to have my spirit crushed shortly thereafter. But now, the sheer thought terrifies me. _Future? _ The present is far too difficult to handle, let alone thinking about days or months down the road.

"Everything continues as it has been," I answer somewhat truthfully, excluding the likelihood of our circumstances growing far worse. "Everyone will eventually become a casualty."

"Of your loved one's behavior, I'm assuming," she notes, to which I nod. "And if you trust your head? If you send this person 'away', as you put it?"

This elicits a quicker response. A conclusion that I need not think twice about. "Then I lose the only thing that's _ever_ mattered to me." I suddenly understand the life that words can take on when verbalized. How theory can become reality by way of a few vocal cords and enough energy. Kind of sucks, really.

"Seems as though you've got quite the decision to make," she says with an air of finality, hopping to the ground. The seconds that follow are dedicated to collecting her professional belongings, all whilst humming the _Cheers _theme song.

I wait—an art that I've mastered—for the discussion to proceed. Her haste says otherwise. "That's it?" I ask once she begins meandering towards the door. "No awe-inspiring lecture? No words of wisdom? I could've sworn that this conversation would end with me standing on the desk, shouting 'O Captain, My Captain' or something."

She giggles as though I've just told the funniest joke to ever grace her ears. "We _could_ sit here and dissect every square inch of your problem, but my guess is that it wouldn't do much good."

"And why is that?" I ask.

"Because, to quote from your insightful, though short, essay on the nature of questioning," she begins, racking her brain for detail, "'We constantly ask the same questions in hopes of distracting ourselves from their painful answers, many of which we are already well aware of."

A piece of paper is wadded up and shot into the trashcan. The woman turns back around, grinning from ear to ear, and points a lone index finger at me. There's a deranged look in her eye. Then, in a gentle manner, she recites, "But avoiding that reality is much like asking the sky for rain while stranded in the desert—tiring, pointless, and the sole guarantee that you'll never make it out alive.'"

* * *

The evening is coming on too quickly, I fear, and nerves riddle me with each passing second. Even with the professor's cryptic message in the forefront of my mind. Like, what goes on at interventions? Has what I've seen on television properly prepared me for the experience? Are there refreshments? Am I supposed to supply the chip and dip? Assorted nuts? Oh, God, what if someone has an allergy?

These are the kinds of questions I use to distract myself from the overarching issue. From the main source of my fear, apprehension, and overall anxious nature.

I make an executive decision halfway through College Calculus. Somewhere in between derivatives and tangents, I decide that I'll speed back to the apartment, make sure that it looks suitable for human sustenance, and possibly consider breaking for the border. Canadians are a friendly people, right? After all, they invented syrup and I am deeply devoted to pancakes. It'd be the perfect getaway.

So I spend the rest of the morning tuning out lectures and mentally preparing for tonight. Planning my great escape. But border hopping is quickly nixed for a multitude of reasons. The obvious ones. Which means that the show _will _go on, and my appearance will be expected.

Granted, I could just write Santana off entirely and save myself the trouble. And this would be a viable option, too, if she hadn't stolen my go-to pair of fuzzy socks from the drawer this morning.

Oh, the struggles of love.

All planning soon becomes null and void, though, when I pull over to inspect a roadside crate of puppies for sale. Handfuls of the bastards. Everywhere. And they're just as happy to see me as I am them, jumping and pawing at every square inch of my body. Covering me in a shower of wagging tails. Wave after wave of slobbery tongues. BSP has always preferred the feline species, but she allows herself to become lost in a sea of mixed, hairy hues anyway.

By the time my assault is complete, the sun has already begun to set. And to the disdain of the puppy proprietors, I leave empty-handed. Purely because something tells me that appearing with a four-legged companion would be counterproductive to the evening's efforts.

Then again, it might go a long way to smooth things over with Santana. I can see it unfolding now. _Here's man's best friend, my love. Now quit fucking up so I won't have to go on any more dates with your father. He kind of creeps me out._

I speed back to the apartment before that rationale wins out.

The scene I then encounter, though, is one that makes me wish otherwise. The door has been unlocked. Opened while I've been away. Inside, the coffee table has been moved. Replacing it, however, is a circle of metal fold-up chairs. Gathered in the seats are familiar faces. Maribel, Dr. Lopez, Eddie, and Carey, to be exact.

It's like the awkward first day of school, when your teacher insists that everyone stand and introduce themselves. Instead of making actual progress, no one budges. No one moves a muscle until _that _one kid takes a leap of faith, thus opening the door for all others.

An older gentleman is that kid. Dark-skinned with baggy cheeks and one, maybe two hairs atop his head, he struggles from his chair. "This is Doctor Bernard Scheffler, an old mentor of mine," Santana's father introduces from across the circle. "He's a professor of psychology at the state university."

A hand extends my way. "Child psychology, mostly. You can call me Bernie," he says, grinning.

Rather than accept the warm and welcoming gesture, my own hand balls into a fist, thumb protruding. It lifts itself over my shoulder and points behind to the door. "Santana isn't due until seven," I say. "You guys are, uh, early."

There's a collective uneasiness amidst the group. So I begin venturing into the kitchen, still keen on tidying up, when scraggly fingers catch my forearm. And then their owner, Bernie, soothingly insists, "Have a seat, dear."

* * *

"This isn't about Santana, is it?" I ask once we're all seated comfortably. Well, most of us, at least. I've snuck a few glances at Eddie, who appears as though he might shit his own stomach out. Carey doesn't seem much better off. In fact, she's yet to look my way.

Thankfully, this Bernie character is fulfilling his duties as mediator and detour-er of tension. Directing our attentions should one comment lead us astray. "Of course it is," he chimes, folding both hands atop his lap.

"Then why—" I don't finish my statement on account of the sudden realization that hits me. The reasoning behind their apprehension. Their nervousness. After all, what would warrant such an early arrival? What other explanation is there for their evident preparedness and uniformity?

Not even five minutes in and the first lie has already been told. This isn't about Santana. Part of me thinks that it wasn't to begin with, either. Which is probably the reason that, through gritted teeth, I breathe, "You've got to be kidding me."

Cool as a cucumber—more a pickle, considering the aesthetic betrayal of aging—Bernie answers, "There are some things that we, as a group, wish to bring to your attention."

"Then speak quickly," I say a bit too forcefully. "Because I'm two seconds away from calling this entire thing off."

Speak quickly, he does. Adamantly, too. With a slew of medical terms that soar far above my head. Words that I've never heard of, in a tone that reeks of seriousness. And after a long while has passed, he finishes with, "Which is why her parents have taken it upon themselves to call ahead. They'll be expecting her sometime next week."

Ambushed. That's how I feel. And as my heart rate increases, as my blood begins to boil, I can't help but feel grateful that Santana isn't here. That she isn't under the lamp. Because if we'd pulled this stunt on her, she would undoubtedly have thrown a tantrum. Something or someone would be broken by the meeting's end.

"We've discussed this," I loudly protest, gearing my attention toward Dr. Lopez. "We _agreed _that she would make the decision. By _herself_. You said _nothing_ about this nonsense that the old guy keeps rambling on about."

"I know what I said," the man returns, voice raising to meet mine. "And the more I thought, the more I realized that you would oppose the idea just as much as she."

Do people consider their words before speaking, or is that an ancient practice? Because so far, all they've brought forth is a load of utter bullshit. Of course I'm protesting their most recent suggestion.

_"Shady Meadows," _as the brochure reads, _"is a facility unlike any other. Here, you or your loved one will be treated with the utmost care and respect. Equipped with the amenities of a five-star resort…"_ I eventually quit perusing, re-folding the pamphlet along its crease. It's much too similar to the ones that plagued Ms. Pillsbury's office three lifetimes ago.

Santana hated that room. And I only know this because she knows this. Because I'm the only one who understands her well enough to know what decisions are best. For _her _sake.

"You're crippling me, Doc," I breathe, reaching across and shoving the paper into his hand. "A full blown fucking aneurysm."

Only now do I become aware of the older woman, who's remained silent up until now. "We just—"

"Pipe down, Maribel," I interject before she can mutter another word. Everyone then looks around the circle for assistance, and when they each falter in stepping up, I continue. This time, to the Bernie fellow. "Look, there _have _to be other options."

"I'm afraid that we've exhausted all others," he dismisses.

"Medicine," I instantly resolve. "Pills that will make her happy. People take them _all_ the time. I can sneak them into her food and—"

And my words are cut off by the oldest gentleman, who sits patiently, shaking his head disapprovingly. "It's not that simple," he breathes, agitated. "We must delve into the problem before ever considering a solution."

"Then tell me what to do. Tell me where to begin helping her, and I will." My breaths are coming shorter and shorter, and I feel a complete meltdown is imminent. They aren't listening. They're just waiting for their next turn to speak and completely disregarding my pleas.

Helpless is how I feel. The sensation of being backed into a corner returns, and I'm fearful that fighting is now a useless tactic. Especially as Bernie diminishes all hope with a quick, "I'm afraid that it's not that simple, either."

A new swell of rage invades my rationale. What does _he _know about being afraid? What right does _he _have in tossing the word around as though it possesses no meaning? As though fear hasn't controlled my life for the past six months? As if it hasn't dictated my every move for as long as I can remember?

"Nothing ever is with you people," I eventually spit, not daring to bite back the malice in my tone. Laughter soon follows. The kind that only situations like these can elicit. Maniacal. Demented. Evoked by people who believe that their bullshit concepts and bullshit decisions will somehow alleviate the utter bullshittiness of this entire scenario. "So please," I continue, sarcastically chuckling, "do enlighten me as to how there is _nothing_ else that we can do. Explain how it can be that _I _am so unfit to care for and protect _my _family."

My eyes have been trained on Bernie until now, when his worn sockets inch in Eddie's direction. He's been sitting silently, and now, with elbows propped on knees and face buried into palms, he begins nodding. Moments later, we're graced with the whites of his eyes. A hand openly waves toward me as he snarls, "Just tell her, for crying out loud."

If this were the movies, right now would be the perfect moment to insert a collective gasp. But as I've long believed, my life does not mimic anything shown on big screens. There are no clear-cut preludes, climaxes, or resolutions. We're all just victims of random occurrence, and should we be so lucky, one or two of them might make sense.

With this rationale, you'd think that I'd be more prepared for the eerie silence that sets in. The dodgy looks that circle all around. You'd think I could chalk this up to random and sleep soundly knowing that, as the popular phrase goes, this too shall pass.

But the only passing object is that of a wave of emotion. A pang that hits my chest long before Bernie clears his throat. Long before he mutters, "Because, Brittany," and looks down.

I am not prepared. In fact, I am the polar opposite of prepared. At least, as my head would have it. Because what falls from his lips next sends my mind into a frenzy unlike any other. It brings sweat to my palms. It reaches into my lungs, takes firm hold of all oxygen, and refuses to let go.

Bernie's eyes eventually meet mine a final time. And there is a resounding pain that settles into them. Even more so, milliseconds after he says, "Because _you're _the problem."


	7. The Monsters We Become

**aprilthewelder: As you could probably tell with the last piece, I absolutely adore cliffhangers, and always try to fit them in when possible. Lol. But thank you for such enthusiasm, and also many thanks for the well-wishes. I can only hope that she looks at me the same.**

**JJLives: "A train wreck that you can't take your eyes off of." I dig that. Lol. And I always look forward to seeing your input, so many thanks for such kind words.**

**The-anon-girl: Many, many thanks, friend. All across the board. **

**K (Guest): I certainly appreciate you taking the time to read and review.**

**OnlyAftertheGoodStuff: I appreciate that, and should only hope to not disappoint. (Not sure if you read the last, but if you haven't and feel confused by some of the themes, be sure to check out the prelude to this story.) Cheers.**

**jtour: I certainly believe it as well. And the light, well, it'll have to come in the form of closure. And if I'm self-aware of the pieces that I create, good, solid closure won't come for some time. It's all about the building. (But it won't always be gut-wrenchingly sad, if that's what you're asking.) Lol. As always, many thanks for taking the time to read and review.**

**hlnwst: Shit just hit the fan, yeah? Lol. **

**4evamuzic: I had to save your response for the end, just because I feel that it will be the lengthiest. Firstly, I am most grateful for your kind remarks. Secondly, I must say that you have captured her character's essence in just a few short sentences. I am completely in awe, dear friend. And thank you for shedding some light over character for myself, as well. As always, many thanks for taking the time to both read and review.**

* * *

**Author's Note: ****I'm always in awe of those who decide to drop in the reviews and leave their input. (In the best way possible.) Things that other's pick up on that I, myself, do not see are just astronomical. For that, I am most grateful to each of you.**

**Also NOTE that last chapter possessed last of the regular flashbacks. Everything from here on out is set in the present.**

_**Disclaimer: I do not own Glee or any of the show's characters.**_

* * *

My heart beats rapidly, though I'm convinced that breathing is no longer an option. Water falls from every available crevice. Palms that refuse to dry. Eyes too anguished to hold strong. My fault? My fault. _My _fault.

Stillness collectively washes over the five other bodies. Ten eyes patiently await answer.

I am as alone as ever.

My hands begin moving first. They feverishly attempt to gather every belonging at once, ultimately succeeding in gathering nothing all the same. Fumbling for a grip on reality, only to have them fall short. "Well, uh—" Tears clog my mouth. Mucus builds in the windpipe. Judgment becomes blurred by accusation. Spirit vanquished by truth.

It takes a minute or two of fidgeting, but I eventually coax the words forth. "There it is, I guess. What everyone's been dying to tell Brittany because she's too stupid to figure it out for herself."

No one objects, so it must hold true.

I stand, intent on heading somewhere. Anywhere but here, a place that will now forever haunt me. But Bernie, the seemingly gentle soul, places a hand on mine. "Sit, Brittany. Stay," he coos. "_Listen_."

Everyone's crying by now. Well, everyone except Eddie and the old guy. The former wears a mask of indifference; the latter, one of sympathy. I settle back down, clenching tightly to a jacket. Holding on for dear life. Anything to keep myself grounded while reflex insists on fleeing.

"Everyone's in agreement on this," Bernie casually notes.

_Everyone except for me, you hairy nipple. _My eyes instinctively cut across the circle to Carey. "Even you?" She gives the subtlest of nods. I trail over to Eddie. "And you?"

"I think that there are some things you know but refuse to accept."

"_A lot_ of things, actually," Maribel interjects.

Part of me wants to punch the woman in that wrinkly, sagging face of hers. In fact, I probably would if Eddie wasn't here. So instead, I opt for, "Then tell me what it is that I'm not seeing. Because chances are, whatever any of you are considering is something I've analyzed, reanalyzed, and lost countless amounts of sleep over."

The flood gates have opened, it would seem, for complaints storm in from all angles. "You're in denial," Bernie begins.

"I'm not fortunate enough for that, guy," I return.

"She's taken everything from you, Brittany. Money, security, sanity," Carey says next.

"Kind of the point of a loving relationship. You know, giving?"

Dr. Lopez chimes in with, "Then she's taking advantage _of _you."

"Santana would never."

"She's our daughter, and we're well aware of her capabilities," Maribel angrily points out. "Santana needs structure. She needs discipline. You're not strict enough, frankly."

"And I'm also not her _mother_, Maribel."

Silence creeps in once more. Turns have been taken, whining brought to a standstill, and I'm convinced that the interrogation is almost over. Eddie is the only that's yet to speak. We sit and stare at each other for the better part of a minute. We wait until he clasps both hands together and the whites of his eyes lift to meet mine. "Well?" I challenge, now at the ready to dismiss his feeble suggestion.

Then, with a sharp tongue, he says, "She simply doesn't love us anymore."

* * *

The words cut like razors. Rip me limb from limb. So much so that my jaw instantly tenses up. "Don't you _dare _say that," I spit with the desperate rage of a wounded animal, fighting for its life. "Do you understand me? I _never_ want to hear those words come out of your mouth again."

He's up and moving about within the second. Before I can scold any further. First, venturing into the kitchen, his head hovers in the opening above our sink. "Back when Santana cared, she'd stand here and sing every morning. She doesn't do that anymore."

Little legs feverishly push towards the kitchen table. "Back when Santana _gave_ a damn, Brittany, she'd stand right here and check over my homework. You know, just to make sure that I wasn't a total dummy. She no longer does that, either."

Next is the expanse between living room and hallway. "You and her stood right here last Christmas, bickering over why she would buy me such an expensive gift. You'd only done it, like, four times that night. Each time, you both apologized and hugged."

Eddie's choked up at this point, finger waving at the door. "Right _there_ is where she flicked my ear after I got detention for calling Missus Renwald a fat yuppie."

The last destination is our couch as he heavily falls back on to it. I'm busy wiping at my eyes when, all while gnawing on his bottom lip, he finally breathes, "Back when we actually _mattered _to her, Santana would sit right here and wait for you to come home. Every. Freaking. Night." His voice trembles, only to be replaced by an angry swallowed. "But I'm guessing that you don't need this one explained, huh?"

The air in the apartment becomes significantly more difficult to breathe. _I'm choking_, I think. _Asphyxiation caused by shock caused by utter devotion to two assholes. Quite the obituary._

Eventually, when oxygen returns to my lungs, Bernie thanks Eddie for sharing. For his "insight". The man then capitalizes on my momentary handicap, asking, "Do you understand now?" He points back across the circle. "You're not the only one who's hurting, Brittany. And allowing Santana to stick around is _not _heroic. Ignoring her problem is _not _a profound act of love. It's _selfish_."

"Who are you holding on to?" a relatively quiet Carey asks. "What are you afraid of losing?"

"Myself," I quickly and sheepishly argue, earning multiple blank stares. Several taken aback looks. "I'm not _me _if she's not around, okay? Without Santana, Brittany doesn't exist. If I don't have her, then I don't have _anyone_."

Eddie's features fall—at least, in the corner of my eye—but honesty is clearly most unavoidable right now. After all, hadn't they freely spoken their minds? Hadn't they told the truth, too? Of course they did.

Then why do I feel as though I'm on trial? Why is it that being truthful leads to nothing but despair?

To make matters worse, there are suddenly the sounds of rustling outside. From the staircase, heavy footsteps clonk against rusty metal. Leveraging the use of his own Psychic Mexican Third Eye, Dr. Lopez rushes from his chair and to the front door. The lock clicks into place just as Bernie clears his throat.

"Now I want you to listen," he says suspensefully.

The handle jiggles.

"Closely, my dear."

More jiggling.

"Are you familiar with the concept of tough love?"

My hands grow shaky as Santana begins pounding on the door.

"Are you, Brittany?"

"Yeah," I answer mid-swallow, eyes not once flinching from their position. "I am."

_Thud, thud, thud. "Fucking bless, B. Open the door."_

"And are you willing to do whatever it takes to see that Santana recovers?"

"Sure," I mutter halfheartedly.

Outside falls silent. I know that she's undoubtedly grown restless, and her hand will be feeling along the door's outermost panel. Searching for a screwdriver we've often used to jimmy the lock open. "Christ, man," I snap too harshly as the moment drags on. "Get to it, will you?"

More jiggling.

And then, calm and expressionless as a Hindu cow, Bernie says, "Tell her to leave."

* * *

"You've officially misplaced your marbles," is what next falls from my mouth.

"Only for an hour or two," he quietly insists. "Learning to say 'no' is a pivotal step in the recovery process. Both of yours."

I could shoot him where he stands, putting me in a position like this. Moments ago, everyone was quick to jump on my case for miniscule discrepancies. Shortcomings that could be easily resolved over the course of time. But now, the group looks at me with great urgency. _Easy to the pull the trigger_, I think, _when you're not the one holding the gun._

"No," I decide with finality. "It'd be like leaving a kitten in the rain." At this, Eddie's presence becomes most prevalent—the guilt he's attempting to force on me—and a defensive insistency harshens my tone. "Now's _really _not a good time for that."

But if I had any control over my life up until now, then it blatantly dissipates when a lone-acting hand eventually reaches for the doorknob. Because I open it barely, soon coming face to face with Santana. "You, uh, you need to go somewhere else."

She instantly laughs and places a hand to the wood, trying to force it open. My foot is at its backside, keeping the piece firmly in place. "Come on, B. I'm cutting diamonds out here," she says, once again attempting to maneuver herself inside.

"_Later_, _please_," I mumble. Thankfully, rather than protesting further, Santana merely rolls her eyes and turns on a heel. I then reach out, taking hold of her arm. "And put the cigarette out, Santana. That stuff will kill you."

More harshly this time, she spits, "I should only be so lucky."

* * *

It's another hour before everyone finally disperses. The meeting ended with a brief, "Your decision is most vital, Brittany. Since you're the only person she'll consider listening to, nothing happens until you give the go-ahead." He waited just one second before including, "Just know that if she continues at this rate, there are but three options for the end result. Rehab, jail, or—"

"'Or I'll find her lying face-down in a ditch," I spat mockingly, frustrated beyond belief. Hurt beyond belief. "Are we done yet?"

The old man merely smiled remorsefully, shook his head, and said, "We've only just begun."

Now, I sit and twiddle my thumbs, waiting for Santana's return. The allotted time frame has since passed, but she hasn't shown, hasn't called, and probably has no intentions of doing either.

Being alone is a tough pillow to swallow, I'm realizing. Because when all you've got are your thoughts, the silence grows louder. Unbearable, even.

_Where along the line do our lives become so screwed up? Is there a key instance in which many of us do not realize the travesty of emotional investment until it's much too late? Shouldn't we receive some sort of fair warning before our worlds come crashing down?_

These are the questions that haunt me.

At least, until footsteps once again sound from outside. Until Santana's presence fills the apartment. She smiles grimly but doesn't speak. Instead, we both awkwardly wait for the other to initiate. Too eagerly, too desperately, I'm the first to budge. And this comes when I eventually extend both arms wide, offering, "This much, right?"

"What is that supposed to mean?" is the immediate response.

Either her mind's been too muddled by drink, or she's trying to spite me. Both are possibilities. After all, we've each become so wrapped up in leveraging malicious words in attempts to destroy the other that sincerity would feel too phony. Regardless, I foolishly persist. "Say that you still want to marry me, Santana," I beg, dangling from slivers of hope that threaten to break at any moment. "Tell me that you want to run away and we will. Just say the word and I'm yours."

She looks at me as though I've grown a second head, only to replace the dreadful silence with sarcastic laughter. A scoff, more or less, aimed at my petty desolation. "That ship's long since sailed," she eventually breathes, making a beeline for the bedroom, not once looking back.

* * *

After the fallout, Eddie's only permitted to visit twice the apartment every week—Tuesdays and Thursdays, to be exact—and only under the supervision of Maribel or Dr. Lopez. Which makes it especially awkward, considering that they take every free moment to ask roundabout questions regarding my decision. The decision Bernie burdened me with. A decision that I've been avoiding for the past three weeks.

This Tuesday, I anxiously await their (Eddie's) arrival, just as I always do. He tenses under my hug, but eventually relaxes. Maribel parks herself in a corner of the den, book out and glasses on, not to mutter a word for the next two hours.

"So, uh—how's school?" I awkwardly ask after the Chinese dinner of his choosing is finished.

Picking at his teeth, Eddie crosses both legs atop the couch before shrugging. "School's school."

"And the camera thing?"

"A little lacking at the moment, what with losing my two muses," he says, chuckling to himself. A hand then cups around a tiny mouth and leans into my ear. "Mister and Missus Jones are a bit tedious to keep up with, if you know what I mean."

No, I don't know what he means, but I nod anyway.

It's become a ritual over the weeks, watching television in our short time together. Eddie's big into filming and what not, so I see no harm in doing so. We are, however, sure to be selective in choosing the program. It's difficult to find appropriate material, though, because having Maribel around is a formality neither of us is completely accustomed to.

No sense in complaining, though. The time flies by quickly enough. Like tonight, when Maribel orders that Eddie make a bathroom run before leaving, I have to hold my tongue. She's cutting us off a whole half hour early. "Don't take it out on him," I beg. "Be upset with _me_."

She merely shoos him away.

But instead of immediately submitting, instantly dashing off to clean up, I venture to ask, "Do you make him chocolate milk after school?" She nods, not once glancing up. "Not the powdery crap, though. He prefers the syrup."

"So he's made perfectly clear," Maribel hums.

I bite my lip. "And when you wash his clothes, do you use the expensive detergent? Because the cheap stuff itches, makes him break out, but he won't ever bring it up."

"Noted," she grunts.

"And—"

Behind the cover of spectacles, her eyes cut up. "Brittany." Thankfully, there is no reprimand, but a softening of body. A way that her shoulders fall lax before she says, "It's been a stressful time for everyone. No need to get yourself all worked up."

_Why not, Maribel? Is feeling like a stranger to your child not worthy enough to fret over? _"But I do," I eventually settle for. "Because if I don't… you heard him. At the meeting. He was so upset, acting as if all was lost. If there's anything I can do to change that belief, then I will. Pointless worrying included."

In an instant, a hazy mist forms over the woman's eyes. She makes a weird choking sound while closing the book and removing her glasses. There's a brief second in which Maribel emits a deep, strangled breath before saying, "Then take him this weekend. Just for a few days. Who knows? Maybe some company could serve to hasten your decision-making skills."

I know it takes a great deal on her part, but she must realize my heartfelt intentions. That I'm merely trying to hold multiple worlds together with weary arms. So I ease the worry by grinning like an idiot. By not bothering to suppress the beam of joy that desperately wishes to burst forth. _Eddie and Brittany, together again. Eddie and Brittany, just the way it should be. Eddie and Brittany and—_

Santana.

A sickening sensation settles into the pit of my stomach. What if this weekend consists of one of her sporadic visits? She's gotten into the habit of staying out three, four days at a time; only popping in the apartment should she need something. Food. Money. Clothes. Sex.

Maybe seeing Eddie after this long a while would be just what she needs. _Yeah, like I need a hole in my head. Appealing but utterly unfeasible._

Maribel must know that the possibility of an appearance from Santana is great. The likelihood of her being heavily intoxicated laying somewhere around the seventy-thirty line. Regardless, I mention for good measure, "He's hers too, you know. Santana has just as much right to this home and those in it as I."

The woman is not comforted by my forthright approach. She appears deeply disgruntled as eyebrows knit inward. As pockets of air are inhaled sharply through her nose. "I've always been an avid believer in a person's shining moment of understanding. That second or two in which their earthly vices suddenly take on meaning," Maribel says, hand gently rubbing along the chair's arm. "And it pains me to know that your moment is coming, especially considering how difficult a concept it will be to grasp."

Is she putting a hex on me? Is there a voodoo doll with my name on it? Is there an email or text message that I can forward to prevent this impending doom? "I don't understand," is what I say.

To much avail, Eddie returns, rubbing his belly and muttering something about greasy food always tearing him up. The conversation promptly ends as Maribel rises, too. "You will," she says, turning Eddie's shoulder towards the door. "I'll be sure to bring him by within the next few days."

* * *

Trying to ignore Maribel's most recent witchcraft, I begin working longer shifts in equal preparation for the weekend. The way I figure, a few extra hours each night will ensure that the Brittany and Eddie Two-Day Extravaganza goes off without a hitch. Complete with an array of goodies, movies, and water guns, the event will undoubtedly top whatever goes on in the Lopez house. You know, bingo nights and what not.

I'm trying to stifle my hopes too, though, in the event of everything going terribly wrong. A house fire. The apocalypse. A certain Latina rearing her beautiful, shit-housed drunk head.

Does it make me a bad person to secretly wish that Santana doesn't show? Or that, if she does, she'll just pass out somewhere in the back? _Oh, hell_, I consider while scouring the candy aisle of our local grocery store. _With this level of excitement, does it really even matter_?

Like a dork, I'm at home on a Friday night. Busily tidying up the apartment. Eddie's room. The den. Everywhere, really. And when a car pulls in just below, a tiny body lugging a duffel bag half its size, I find it terribly difficult to suppress the eagerness.

Judging by the way Eddie sprints up the outer staircase, I'd be damned to say that he isn't pretty stoked, too.

* * *

We spend most of the evening stuffing our faces and drenching more of the apartment walls with water than each other. Laughing all the while, though. But the sugar highs eventually reach their peaks, and when they do, I fall onto the sofa as Eddie pops in one of his home video tapes.

First to show is a snippet of some kids from his school. On their skateboards, doing tricks and the like. The shots are pretty impressive, and I make a point of saying so. After all, he's managed to transform the most mundane of activities into a true work of art. I've always caught myself seeing Eddie in a far more mature light, and this is merely another testament to his abilities.

As the mini movies progress, we then stumble across a real gem.

Just imagine this: Dr. Lopez; a pair of sunglasses; one white, button-up shirt; his underwear; and a pair of socks. It's one of those things that you wish you could un-see, but equally cannot tear your eyes away from. And as we giggle hysterically at the impromptu performance caught on hidden camera, I can't help but envision Tom Cruise turning in his grave.

Matters don't become truly uncomfortable until the scene fades out and another replaces it. Santana, wielding a hairbrush, enthusiastically rocking out to Bon Jovi's "Living on a Prayer". I immediately reach for the remote and kill the television. Eddie merely glances down.

"Where is she, anyway?" he then asks once silence settles in. "Kind of figured she'd come stumbling in by now."

I collect our trash and take it into the kitchen, hoping that my thoughts will soon manage to do the same. "She's at a friend's house," I say, which isn't a complete lie.

"Jack's, Jim's, or Jose's?" he taunts, playfully smirking.

It's then about halfway into watching Iron Man (the boy's choice, I swear) before either of us speaks again. Up until now, we've just been curled into the couch, a shared comforter warming us both. Tony Stark is chit-chattering away with the hot red-head when Eddie solemnly asks out of nowhere, "Why'd you do it, Brittany? Why'd you leave me?"

_Oh, boy. There it is. _Frankly, I should've seen this one coming. But even with twenty-twenty vision into the future, I'd still probably be unprepared. You know, like right now.

"Well," I begin, stumbling over the single syllable. "Um—" I can't seem to make it past one-worded answers. That is, until the television light flickers just enough to illuminate his face. To put on display every unanswered question and ounce of grief that penetrates his features. _Damn it, Brittany. _"Being an adult is hard, buddy," I somehow manage. "It stops being just about you, growing up. You have to make decisions for the good of other people, too."

He groans, obviously cringing at how much my bullshit reeks. But it's the truth, and quite possibly the _only_ one, considering that the BSP of late hardly ever asks why some reasons are too upsetting and thus thinks in no such way. "Why'd _you_ do it?" I then question, torn between playful and serious. "Why'd you throw me under the bus at that meeting?"

"If memory serves, I went down with you," he quickly points out. "But being a kid is hard. Especially when all you have is yourself to worry about."

He laughs. I nudge him. Hard.

Something about being with the kid, though; something suddenly begins to feel too peaceful. Too golden. Like the flip of a switch, our evening feels like a sham. Hollowed out. Because if the past few years have brought me to believe anything, it's that serenity like this only comes in waves. Pure bliss is temporary. A fleeting sensation.

I try not allowing my apprehension to ruin the rest of our time. After all, it's been more than I could've hoped for. Filled with laughter. Horsing around. Tackling the tough issues with an air of light-heartedness. Just like the good ole' days.

Maybe that's what's most bothersome.

Because it would seem as though those times are long gone, for once the doorknob begins turning hours later, my muscles tense. _Please be a robber. Please be a robber, _I think. _Hell, be an ax murderer, coming to chop Eddie and me into little pieces. Anything but_— Santana's face appears before I can finish the thought. Her lidded eyes are as red as the devil's dick, and she has to lean against the door to remain upright.

Eddie's back from the kitchen before I can act. Their eyes immediately pierce into the other's. Two people equally intent on committing murder via glare. "Santana," he eventually breathes, to which she grunts.

"Eddie," I mutter through grinding teeth, "why don't you step into the other room for a second?"

"Or I could stay right here," he almost growls. "We have some serious catching up to do."

"Is that so?" Santana laughs, stumbling across the room and onto our couch. In my seat. Her trademark. She pats the space next to her with one hand while fumbling to light a cigarette with the other. "Come, boy," she practically coos. "Come sit and fill me in on _everything _thatI've missed."

I take a seat on the ground nearest our front wall, knees drawn into my chest to suppress their shaking. I shouldn't be this nervous. It's merely Santana and Eddie, shooting the shit like olden days. They make a few off-handed remarks. Laugh at a crude joke or two. _Maybe this can work, _I think. _Breathe, Brittany. Just. Breathe._

Everything progresses as well as a tension-filled interaction can. They've remained glued in their respective places on opposite sides of the couch. They've howled boisterously at the expense of Santana's parents. They've remained cordial, something I haven't expected.

Both then carry on utterly expressionless until Santana begins dozing off mid-sentence. Until the evening's indulgence begins to take full effect and her eyes roll back into her head. Until Eddie has to nudge her arm to bring her back to. Until his face sours over in fully comprehending her state of delirium. It's the pain of recognition. A certain sadness that only understanding can afford. "What's wrong with you?!" he spits somewhere out of left field, eliciting a wide-eyed, shell-shocked response.

It's Santana's bear-woken-from-hibernation glare. The kind that only means trouble in the long run. "I think it's time for bed," I announce, trying to nip further confrontation in the bud. "All of us."

The Latina merely grins stupidly as our mulatto counterpart begins blinking rapidly. On the verge of tears—angry ones—it would seem. She ignores him entirely in asking, "Does this mean we're fucking tonight? Because if not, I'd much rather stay right here."

Disgusted is how he looks. Not by Santana's words, but more so with her demeanor. A physical representation of how I feel on a daily basis. "Seriously, what's gotten into you? Since when did you become such a—"

"A what?" Santana fiercely challenges. "Since I became such a _what_?"

"A coward," Eddie quickly snarls. "A lowlife, deadbeat, pathetic excuse for a person."

_Houston, the shit has officially hit the fan. I repeat: worse has come to worst._

Only now do her fists begin to ball and unwind. Clenched as she struggles to stand, foot turning for the hallway. The boy is far braver than I, for he catches her arm in the nick of time. He refuses to let go, even as she yanks, tugs, and claws at his hand. "Let go of me, kid," is all that falls from pursed lips.

"Hit me," he then says rather defiantly. "Smack me upside the head, just so I know that you're still in there."

Tears are streaming freely down his face, keeping a rapid pace. Santana ignores this fact too, though, for her bloodshot eyes slowly cut to mine. "Get this kid away from me, Brittany."

But before I can meet either request, two palms forcefully meet her shoulders. "Come on, Santana." Push. "Hit me." Shove to the mid-section. "Fight." Nudge. "Fight back for a fucking change."

What comes next is entirely unforeseen. Because Santana, inebriated body fueled by an ungodly internal rage, does fight back. She retaliates with a firm grip that gathers his shirt into her fists. She meets his challenge with unmatchable strength, hoisting a thirteen-year-old frame in the air and marching it across our den. Pinning it against the wall. Craning her neck in such a way that Eddie receives a face full of alcohol-tainted breath. Then, in the most menacing of tones, Santana spits, "Leave me the _hell_ alone."

But her hold doesn't falter. Even as my limbs remain frozen with fear, Santana commands the situation. Demands that her presence be felt. For the cigarette that previously dangled from her mouth now hovers dangerously close to the point where tan forearm meets tan neck. Where the ever-reddening face of a boy simultaneously turns a flushed shade of white. "You want to know what my deal is?" she almost whispers, hand inching closer by the millisecond. "You want to _feel _what I'm feeling?"

It takes a great deal of effort, but all at once, body and mind kick into overdrive. I'm wrestling Santana away before I know it. Bear-hugging her from behind, both pairs of legs tense as they grind against carpet. Santana doesn't resist, but merely acts as dead weight. She staggers into the nearest stronghold when finally released.

Thankfully, Eddie, who's fallen onto the ground with his back against the wall, is too dumbfounded and busy gasping for air to react. He stares blankly ahead, jaw appearing as though it wishes to fall open.

My fire struggles in dictating where to first direct itself. Santana decidedly wins out. "Lay another finger on him, and I'll make sure that it's the _last _thing you ever touch. Now get out," I growl in one breath, finger aimlessly wagging at the door.

"I'm not going anywhere," she coolly replies.

"Get out, Santana."

"_Wow_, Brittany. Just wow."

"OUT."

"You're really doing this, huh?" she asks with an air of disbelief. "You're taking _his _side?"

"_GO_."

She eventually does. She grunts, takes years to rise from the floor, and stiffens her leather jacket. Then, following a hateful scoff, the door slams shut. The violent rattling of four walls is all that remains.

* * *

Frazzled and distraught and feeling like a complete failure, I usher Eddie off to the safety of Carey's apartment. "I've made a grave mistake," is all I can offer in terms of explanation. He must understand, for instead of protesting my decision, another video tape is fished from his duffel bag and placed into my hands.

We part yet again. And this time, I reenter the apartment experiencing a sorrow unlike any other. _She didn't mean it. It was just the drugs acting. Santana would never hurt the people she loves. _

The thought instantly destroys me, primarily because it's most accurate of all. Santana would never hurt the people she cares about. But she has hurt _us_. It's a fact that can only mean one of two things.

But I'm not focused on the possibilities. I'm trying to keep in the present. For instance, I should be busy calling the police. I should report the incident and allow them to make heads or tails of the situation. I should act on Eddie's behalf.

_Great idea, B. Alert the authorities. Go ahead and hand Santana back over. Send her back to the place that you were almost destined for. You know, jail? You know, where she went so you wouldn't have to?_

_You just go ahead, Brittany. Because in comparison to what will undoubtedly come, you'll realize just how a short a time fourteen months is. _

I don't move.

_Allow the situation to go ignored and Eddie is the one that suffers. You've been there before, Brittany. When you lived with Susan, remember? Then again, you do carry her name. What's that saying about the apples and trees?_

I'm paralyzed.

So Instead of deciding upon _anything_, I slink against the door's frame, allowing helplessness to take its final toll.

* * *

Now, I am well aware that as I've been telling you the story of Santana and myself, anguish-filled words have often been used to encompass yours truly. "Regretful" frequently describes the things I've done. "Torturous" depicts the things I've witnessed. "Painful" is, at best, a menial description of the things I've experienced.

But, you see, terms as these are of the utmost necessity. Because they manage to convey simplistic emotion when the truth of the matter is that being openly honest would be far too difficult a task. The alternative, where I currently lie on the spectrum of human emotion, is much too confusing.

And while you sit or lie there, wondering how the concept could possibly be _that _unfathomable, that complex, I stand here, wondering how it could ever make sense.

I mean, how is someone supposed to explain their emptiness? How does someone describe the numbness, similar to a deadened foot, which fills every available internal void?

At least "pain" and "anguish" are relatable. At least heartache is universal. At least you might be able to understand the sting of a stubbed toe, or something of that nature.

All of these reasons are what lead me outside into the cold winter night. They're the collective driving force behind my legs, two entities that push me toward the only proper sanctuary this town has to offer. And when I finally near Dad's headstone in the Lima Memorial Cemetery, frozen tears accompany frozen hands that could not possibly begin to mend a heart frozen with despair.

It feels like everything's happening at once. The past month. The past twelve hours. Each holds a separate lifetime's worth of brokenness.

I'm crippled.

So I sit.

I wait.

I violently shiver.

I yell, "Where's my silver lining, huh?!" The sky does not answer, as it hasn't in years. I've called, sure, but only ever received worn out dial tones. "_You're _supposed to be watching over me!" _Wuuuuurrrrrh. _"Why are you letting these bad things happen?"

Don't ask me who I'm yelling at. It's too difficult to say. And guessing would be a shot in the dark. Dad, maybe. God. Santana.

_Myself_.

Funny, how circular our lives are. Always revolving back to the beginning point. Ending at the start. Two years ago, it was Santana who was upset with me. It was me in the dog house. I was the one fighting for her forgiveness.

You'd think it would've flip-flopped in that respect. The drunkard takes responsibility for their actions and begins cleaning up the mess. We're not that simple, though, Santana and me. We might occasionally exchange hands, but for the most part, we remain on a constant loop. And while basic logic would argue that reconciliation is in the cards, it wouldn't matter. Not now, at least.

Because in two lives once naively destined for grandeur, the domesticity we succumb to becomes tragedy. For it transforms us into people we've long sworn to never become.

The Susans of this world, selfishly destroying those who most rely on our safe-keeping. The Santanas, leaving before left. The BSPs, foolishly seeing the glimmering beam of hope in an otherwise dark, wretched world.

We slowly realize that we are neither Romeo nor Juliet; Maria nor Tony; and we certainly aren't finding love on mainline ships somewhere in the Pacific, all while sailing towards doom.

Maribel predicted that I would have this moment. She said that it was imminent, and that I wouldn't be able to grasp it in its entirety. I didn't doubt her foresight; I just never thought it'd come so soon.

Which is why I begin searching my pockets fervently. For my keys. An old locker one, more specifically. One that I used at the community center when dancing was a frequent practice. It's now been weathered by use, but not for retrieving garments after a long, joyous workout. Instead, the dulled curvatures are a product of just about every Lima tree.

And just what would trees have to do with anything? This might sound silly, but whenever I'm out and about, I usually carve our initials into bark as Santana had done when we were children.

Maybe it's because my subconscious still wants to believe. Maybe it still wants to feel as though being Santana and Brittany _means _something. That our relationship still possesses unmatchable value. Because as of late, everything's been geared toward the opposite. Life has laughed and spat in the face of our love. It's said that what we've had is no more cherished than the friendship of an elephant and field mouse. That, when our time comes—when a once indestructible passion becomes yet another tear lost in the rain—no one will so much as bat an eye.

BSP is a believer and always has been, though. Which is the sole reasoning behind my hand as it begins etching our initials under the cover of towering branches. As an indication that hope remains.

Not three seconds into carving an _"S" _does my tool sink deeply into wood. And after a quick _crack_, roughly one-eighth of the key breaks off in my palm, the other part to be forever lost in nature.

I stare disbelievingly.

I begin laughing hysterically.

_Well, isn't that a bitch?_

I laugh again, only to choke on my own grief.

I try to yell once more.

I sink onto dirt, back propped against tree.

I no longer register harsh, biting winds.

I'm simply too busy having my moment.

* * *

It's hours before I move again. Undoubtedly riddled with some version of hypothermia or frostbite, stiff limbs eventually coax me back to civilization. I'm then a nameless wanderer, a shell of a human being, as I walk to the diner Santana once worked at. As I settle in the corner booth that I used to frequent. As I order the pancakes that she once consistently delivered with a smile that could warm me for a thousand winters.

I can't eat.

Instead, I bury my face into both palms, sobbing until every ounce of misery has been expelled. This takes a while.

Eventually, though, I muster the courage to dig my cellphone free. Fumbling with red, ashy, cracking hands, I dial the familiar number.

One ring.

Two rings.

_"Bri—"_

"You win," I whisper in defeat. The air vanishes from my lungs in one fell swoop.

_"What do you—"_

"I mean that you _win_," I admit with a voice that threatens to no longer function properly. "We'll send her away. We'll make her go get help."

A moment passes, and the sigh of relief rattles my eardrum. More so, the sounds of muffled, enthusiastic whispering are most evident. Another voice then joins our conversation. It trembles in saying, "We're most excited to hear that you've changed your mind."

Odd word to use, "excited". It's like sending a "get well soon" card to someone who died two weeks ago. Yeah, _excited_.

"Only on one condition, though," I soon grumble, silencing their chatter.

"Anything at all," both Maribel and Dr. Lopez say in unison.

_Oh, man. _BSP is not one for goodbyes, as you probably well know. If Lord Tubbington's death serves as any indication, she folds under the pressure of solitude. When her foundation disappears for days on end, only to return as a shadow of her former self, BSP falls too.

But if the end must come, I've decided that it comes on _my_ terms. If God and guardian angels actually exist, then they're going to look _me_ in the eye as _I_ demand answers. As they attempt to justify the destruction _I've_ witnessed. And if Santana is destined to live a life of bitter resentment, then just before embarking, she is going to stare into the face of a girl who promised to be hers and proudly so.

A girl she promised to love _always._

These thoughts begin to overwhelm me once more, and before I'm absolutely broken into two, I croak into the phone, "I'm the one that takes her."


End file.
